


Finding Home

by FoMT



Series: Finding Home [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mob Boss Geralt, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26693266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoMT/pseuds/FoMT
Summary: Tired of life as a witcher, and feeling unable to decide his own fate, Geralt moves to Novigrad. All he wants is to avoid everyone from his old life, and find a new, quiet way to live. What he doesn’t expect is to find love, purpose, and a home. Oh, and to accidentally become a mob boss.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Finding Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970062
Comments: 236
Kudos: 320





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started as a response to a prompt on the kink meme, for Jaskier to call mob boss Geralt saying "it's one of your friends again," but the idea got away from me and became this monster. The line is still used, but I don't think poor anon prompter was expecting the 50k or so words leading up to it. 
> 
> I use a weird mix of Netflix, game, and fanon elements in my story, but it should be easy enough to read regardless of background knowledge. For those who are interested, the plot and background heavily reference the games. 
> 
> Shoutouts to my friend [kidaore](https://kidaore.tumblr.com/), who beta read, and to [Amalveor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amalveor/pseuds/Amalveor), who encouraged me to finish the thing. 
> 
> This is finished; I will post a new chapter every day. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt was tired.

Looking back, it wasn't hard to see why. He had stomped on the witcher code of neutrality so badly it was hardly recognizable beneath his feet. He took on criminal organizations and religious orders. He saved kings from assassination and was accused of the assassination of kings. He fought for non-humans, and fought non-humans. He was so entangled in political intrigue he couldn't even point out where he had gone wrong. Each time he had convinced himself that there was no other choice. That it was the "lesser evil."

He hated that term.

He looked down at Letho. He had been planning on killing the other witcher, but he'd lost the momentum to do so. Letho's sword was strewn on the ground behind him, and Geralt’s sword was shoved into the ground next to Letho's neck. The man was completely still, even though Geralt must have frozen for more than a minute, lost in thought.

He got up from where he was kneeling on Letho's chest, yanking his sword out of the ground as he rose.

"Not going to finish me off?" Letho asked, still prone.

Geralt walked over to Letho's sword and tossed it back in his general direction, narrowly missing his face. "Won't make a difference," Geralt replied. He looked at Letho, who hadn't moved from the ground, looking up at him in confusion, or as much as one could expect to see on a witcher's face. "I'm tired. I'm not going to kill you. Go."

Geralt didn't wait for a reply, and left.

He had no promises left to fulfill, and little to his name besides his armor, swords, and Roach. Triss was waiting for him, but he told her simply that he was leaving, and turned away without another word. He was fond of her, and maybe she deserved more than that, but he needed something new. He needed a place where no one knew him, where nothing was expected of him.

Unfortunately, he soon found that such a place simply didn't exist.

The first place Geralt thought of where he could disappear into a crowd was Novigrad, so that was where he headed. Historically he had disliked the city—too many people, too much prejudice, and almost all the monster contracts ended up in the sewers. But it was also the last place anyone who knew him would look for him. Sadly, he couldn't do anything about the fact that white hair and golden eyes stood out everywhere, and he was well known for those features.

"You a witcher, White-Haired?"

Geralt sighed, and flicked his eyes up to the man fidgeting besides his table. The light in the tavern was dim, but to Geralt's keen eyes, it was as bright as day. The man was slight and dirty—a peasant. Geralt waited, and the man continued without a reply.

"Sumthin' in the streets at night, sir. Ma daughter, she ain't come home."

Despite his determination for something new, there was no helping the fact that Geralt had no money, and no experience with anything besides witchering. And even if he wanted to quit, it was hard to turn away the poor, desperate citizens that begged for his help. He couldn't walk past when a non-human was cornered by bandits. And his ears still pricked when they heard people discussing their troubles.

He tracked the girl that night to a katakan's lair, fought it, and took the head as proof.

"White One!" A strumpet called as he passed through the docks in the early morning, just before daybreak. She looked like she was coming off a hard night, shaky, with bruises up her arms and under her eyes. "Walk me home?"

He nodded agreeably, and she didn't mention the severed head or the blood spatter. "Where to?" he asked.

"Just to Kate's," she replied, eyes catching on the shadows. They moved, but nothing appeared. "I can't offer much coin but… do you need a place to rest? Won't be customers in the morning."

"Thanks." He had the same problem getting paid as he always did, in that the people most in need of his services often didn't have the coin to pay him. But as he stayed in Novigrad longer, he gradually became known and familiar to the people in the area. That tentative trust was worth more than all the crowns in Novigrad's coffers.

The pair stopped outside of Crippled Kate's, and the girl turned to look at him at the door, questioning.

He raised the trophy in reply. "Gotta drop this off first," he explained.

She nodded. "I'll tell the Madame. Ask for Suzy," she said, and disappeared inside.

Geralt continued on to Farcorners, out Glory Gate. The guards squinted at him and mumbled insults under their breath, but didn't stop him this time. As he approached the gate, the city got dirtier and grimier, but once outside it abruptly opened up into pleasant fields and refreshingly spaced houses. Though the people of Farcorners were poor, Geralt found he much preferred their living situation to the crowded squalor inside the gates. He stopped briefly to wash out the worst of the blood from his hair and armor in the Pontar River, then stopped again when the alley he cut through was blocked by four men cornering an elf. He watched for a moment, sighed, and threw the head at one of them. It hit him smack in the back of the head and he yelped, turning around.

"Get out of here," Geralt growled, too tired to start anything, but still unable to do _nothing_.

"But—" The men started turning on him, but one kicked the fallen head, and they startled, backing away slowly.

"No. Get."

They got the picture and left, and Geralt stepped forward to retrieve his trophy.

"Thank you, Vatt'ghern," the elf said fervently. "I don't have much…"

Geralt hummed, used to the response. "Almost morning. You eat yet?"

"No, I—" The elf caught on, and brightened. "Come home and eat with me, won't you?" Geralt hummed again, and followed the elf to his house, where they ate bread and salted meat and berries for breakfast, with the elf's wife and daughter. The family complained about the prejudice in the city and the troubles with getting work, and Geralt gave some two-sentence summaries of contracts he'd done, when asked. The young girl stared at him throughout the meal in fascination, and pestered him about his hair and his eyes and his swords and his armor, until her parents scolded her for it. When the meal was done, Geralt picked up the head once more, and continued on to his contractor's house.

The man answered the door quickly. "White-Haired! Did you find her?" The man's eyes flitted to the head, and he flinched back.

"Katakan. Living in one of the huts by the river in Silverton. Found a young girl's body and two others. Can't be sure it's your daughter, so you better go check." He paused, then added, "sorry."

A sob broke out from behind the door, and the man left the doorway to comfort his wife. The two offered him a meagre sum, far less than he'd usually ask for a katakan, but what could he do? They were barely scraping by as it was. He took the money, burned the trophy and chucked it into the river on his way back to Kate's. The madame directed him to Suzy's bed, and he stripped and crawled into bed next to her.

He continued killing monsters on contract. The only difference was that he no longer traveled the Path looking for them. Despite his original intentions, this ended up meaning a lot more time in the sewers than he'd hoped. Still, he stayed in Novigrad, barely scraping together enough for a meal every once in a while, occasionally sleeping in the streets with the beggars when the coin wasn't enough.

He wasn't paid often for his work, and when he was, it wasn't much. Instead, he got used to bartering. Manual labor for the washerwomen got his clothes washed for free. Escorting someone home at night would end in an invitation to dinner. Running protection at the brothel earned him a few hours in an open bed. And the more requests he took in the lower city, the more people knew him. The prostitutes and brothel madames sought him out. The elves of Farcorners all greeted him reverently as he passed. After a few nights on the streets, the beggars started sharing information with him. In just a couple months, nearly every household in the lower districts had been indebted to him for some task or another, and they repaid him with whatever they could spare.

Despite being poor, life wasn't bad. Geralt began making friends. On the Path, he had never had the time or leeway to befriend people, and he had to remind himself frequently that he wasn't on the Path anymore, that he could settle down and get to know people. He had shared a bed with every prostitute in the area at least once, and in return learned their names, backgrounds, and aspirations. From his tendency to save non-humans out late at night, he had befriended almost the entire elven community of Farcorners, including the circus folk and the Scoia'tael camp in the woods.

One night on his way back from said camp, he stumbled upon an injured succubus named Salma.

A snap and a groan of pain alerted him to her presence, and as he approached, she scooted back into a tree. She was growling lowly, but her eyes were afraid. She was covered in dirt, and it partially hid the white markings on her skin, but it couldn't hide her furry, hoofed legs or her horns. He had spent the whole day tracking down a missing cart of supplies for the Scoia'tael, and was too tired for a fight. But the succubus didn't look ready for one either.

He glanced down at her leg. It was dark, but looking closer she was bleeding somewhat heavily from one calf. He ignored her growling and approached, inspecting the wound. The spaces between the cuts suggested some kind of animal trap. After he had prodded the wound carefully for a few moments, she spoke.

"The villagers set it, outside my den." Her voice wobbled, from emotion or pain, he couldn't tell. "I helped them, brought them medicine when Anna was feverish, and…" She broke off, but Geralt understood. He'd been chased out of villages a lot, too. Usually after saving them from a monster, tired and bleeding.

He didn't have any medicine that he was certain would work on a succubus, but he ripped the sleeve off his shirt and bandaged her leg tightly.

"Thank you," she said. Her eyes were resigned, and he knew she had given up. She'd take this one last kindness, and succumb to death in the woods, whether by starvation, or by the next, less benevolent creature to find her.

He considered if there was anything else he could do. So often on the Path he had had to harden his heart and turn away from a problem that as a witcher, he wasn't cut out to solve. But he wasn't a witcher anymore, and he could afford to help. He remembered Sweet Nettie. She was a kind soul, one of the girls at Crippled Kate's brothel, and the last time he stayed with her she had complained about always getting the worst customers. Something about her face, she'd said. Something that made men want to be a little too rough, a little too forceful. She never liked it, but what could she do? It was either that, or be out on the streets.

The madame had been troubled too. "I'd love to send them away," she'd told Geralt when he brought it up, "but we're barely getting by as it is. This isn't the Passiflora, men don't come here for the prettiest girls and the best sex they'll ever know. They come here for an easy toy to swing around a little when the stress at home gets too much."

"Listen," he told the succubus, "I know you're hurting, but there may be a place for you, if you want to give it one more try. Can you trust me?"

He watched the hope blossom in her eyes, and prayed to all the gods he didn't believe in that he wouldn't crush it again before sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her into the city discreetly through the sewers.

When they got to Kate's, he took her to the back door and called the madame out into the alley. The madame's eyes widened in shock when she saw Salma, but quickly softened. She knew a broken girl when she saw one.

"She's a succubus," he explained, once introductions were out of the way. "She charms men to have sex with her, and feeds off the sex. She won't kill," he added, cutting off what looked like an objection from the madame, "I'll vouch for her." He looked to Salma in warning, and she nodded quickly. "But you can send her the bad customers. She's tougher than the girls, and they'll be able to work more if they don't have to take days off to heal from bruising."

He could see the madame coming around. "And what of you, then?" she challenged. "If I'm not mistaken, we pay you most often to run interference on rowdy customers. This could mean a big hit to your work here."

Geralt shook his head. "The girls' safety is more important. Just try it. Put Salma up for a week, and if it doesn't work out, I'll come get her and move her out."

Of course, Geralt's proposal worked splendidly, and even though his paid work at Kate's did decrease, the girls and Salma still offered him their beds freely whenever he needed a rest. The madame always turned a blind eye.


	2. Chapter 2

His presence in the city didn't go unnoticed by those in power, either. The city guards watched him more closely. Thugs avoided him late at night. And though he didn't realize it at the time, he was attracting the attention of a darker force in Novigrad: the Big Four.

The Big Four were the criminal overlords of Novigrad, and they oversaw everything in the city. Instead of paying the bureaucracy to look the other way, the bureaucracy answered to _them_. And the Big Four kept their power through their own pact to keep out of each others' way. The only times they came together were to settle disputes or for mutual gain. 

Geralt's sphere of influence, without his knowledge, was growing rapidly. And without any intention of doing so, he was beginning to encroach on the territories of these crime lords. He was a frequent face in The Bits, where the lowest-class citizens lived and where Whoreson Junior staked his claim. He was well-acquainted with a number of non-humans and prostitutes living and working in Farcorners, in Glory Lane, and by the docks, which cut into not only Cleaver's territory, but was also a little too close to the Putrid Grove for the King of Beggars to overlook.

It would be a different story if he just lived there, same as anyone else. But no—while Geralt was protecting the citizens, they couldn't be squeezed for protection money. The men on the streets couldn't harass the prostitutes. The thieves couldn't steal. The thugs couldn't kill. And even when he wasn't on a specific job, he wouldn't leave men alone if they were threatening someone in the street, or smashing up someone's house. And he never left things with a warning. It always ended in blood.

Not that Geralt set out to kill them, of course. But when he told armed robbers to get lost, those weapons always ended up pointed at him. And he wasn't so confident as to take on a sword with bare fists. But an armed witcher against an armed man was no competition. Geralt felt a little bad for the slaughters he left in every corner of the city, honestly. He hoped every time that the thugs would learn, someday, just not to cross him.

But Sigi Reuven—well, when he heard of the complaints his compatriots had about the white-haired witcher in their territories, he saw opportunity.

Sigi Reuven, otherwise known as Sigismund Dijkstra, was the former head of Redanian Intelligence, with whom Geralt had a past. Dijkstra tried to manipulate Geralt, Geralt irreparably broke Dijkstra's ankle. They had parted on not-so-nice terms, but Dijkstra was, if nothing else, resourceful. He knew Geralt had a specialist skill set—one he could use.

That was how Geralt found himself being forcefully escorted to the bathhouse in the middle of the day. "Dijkstra," Geralt greeted as he entered. He didn't enjoy being paraded around, but the men who led him hadn't been armed, and he disliked pulling a weapon on anyone who didn't start the fight. Seeing Dijkstra, he realized that was intentional.

The man didn't look all that different from when he and Geralt last met. Tall, imposing, with a fully shaven head and face and a large protruding belly, he reminded Geralt somewhat of a prized pig at market. His shiny gold doublet really didn't fit his "spy" title whatsoever, but he had never really dressed the part.

"Geralt," Dijkstra replied, standing from behind his desk. "You've made yourself quite at home here. How are you liking Novigrad?"

Geralt crossed his arms threateningly and frowned. "Get to the point. What do you want?"

"There are a few things going on that could use the skills of a witcher. More importantly, I can pay you. Well."

It was true that despite not being treated poorly, at least in his confined area of the city, Geralt had no steady income and no steady residence. And the income, in particular, was taking its toll.

"What kinds of things?" Geralt asked. "I'm not going to kill people for you."

Dijkstra scoffed, as if he had never hired an assassin before. "No, I know. I mean tracking. Information gathering. That sort of thing. Maybe some bodyguarding, if you're up to it. I hear you do that now." Geralt scowled at the hint that Dijkstra had had him watched. But they ultimately agreed to terms.

Geralt followed city guards, overheard conversations of the Nilfgaardian ambassador, and snooped in the territories of other Big Four members for Dijkstra, relating all information back to him directly and not asking questions. The money was always handed over without a word.

After a number of "contracts," Geralt was taken on his first bodyguarding case. It was a regular public event for someone like Dijkstra—a visit to Whoreson Junior's casino, where a number of members of the criminal underground would have a meeting. Nobody questioned Geralt's presence, and Dijkstra didn't introduce him to anybody, leaving him downstairs during the meeting, where Geralt ended up observing the games of gwent being played at the tables. He'd never picked up cards himself, but by the time Dijkstra grabbed him he had a working understanding of the rules.

"I take it you didn't agree on the changes to the smuggling route, then?" Geralt mentioned lightly on the way back.

Dijkstra spun and looked at him in surprise. "You—" Understanding broke out on his face then, and he kept walking, purposefully, mumbling lowly to Geralt as he went. "Figures you'd pick up on it. No, they didn't. I don't suppose you have any ideas about it?"

Geralt did, actually, and didn't mind sharing them with Dijkstra. The next time they met, Geralt got a peculiar thank you.

"It's come to my attention," Dijkstra said, leading Geralt over to a card table, "that you have a sharper mind than I remembered. Ever played gwent? I've been needing someone who could match me."

Geralt was given a starter deck, and picked up the game easily from what he remembered seeing at the casino. Dijkstra was a tough opponent, particularly for a first game, but still seemed impressed at how quickly Geralt caught on. After that, they'd play a game or two every time Geralt dropped by, and Dijkstra encouraged Geralt to play other people in the city for cards—at inns, the casino, and brothels—and build up a deck of his own. He found, after a few weeks of practice, that he could make more gambling for an hour or two than he used to some days out on the Path.

With Dijkstra as his backer, and with the extra earnings he was getting through gambling, Geralt was finally making enough to get a room at an inn every night, and the place he decided on was the Rosemary and Thyme. He'd heard good things from his non-human clients, and it was clean and warm and conveniently located between the districts he worked in the most.

It also didn't hurt that within a week, he had fallen embarrassingly hard for the owner and manager of the establishment. Jaskier was bright, effervescent, and incredibly kind. He wasn't scared, or even nervous, around Geralt, despite being the weakest specimen of human Geralt knew—a bard. Though Geralt was a known face in Novigrad by then, he was still feared (or at least avoided) by all but his closest acquaintances.

Jaskier chattered incessantly, and Geralt took to eating breakfast and dinner at the inn's bar almost every day, just so Jaskier would drop by and speak to him. He talked about how he traveled the world as a bard before acquiring the inn. He talked about his dreams to turn it into a cabaret, with a stage that had new performers and new performances every night. He would sometimes pull out his lute and sing to Geralt, and note how much he missed making music.

"Good morning, Geralt! Out late again?" Jaskier greeted, fluttering over to their regular seats at the bar.

Geralt hummed, shoveling more warm gruel into his mouth. Jaskier took it in stride, perching precariously on the stool next to him. "In matter of fact, I was too. After dinner, I went to visit Vespula—a lovely lady, I'm sure I've told you, she lives in Farcorners, near Elihal, you know Elihal right? Anyways, went to say hi, it's been ages, I was thinking of her recently because I'd dug up a book of old sonnets I'd written and one of them was about her, thought she'd like to hear it. We broke up a while ago, but I mean, it's not like you _forget_ about old lovers. Right? Right. Well, she got the wrong idea, thought I was trying to woo her back—which, I mean, she's lovely, yes, but… _anyways_ —and she got mad because she saw me out with _another_ girl, and how could I cheat on her, but I… Who did she even see me with? Priscilla? Gorgeous, sure, but she's like a _sister_ to me, how could she think—" Jaskier's hands waved in erratic circles in the air in accompaniment to his story.

Geralt sat and nodded and hummed at the appropriate intervals, and smiled internally as wide as he could. He was broken, and would never be good for Jaskier. He convinced himself he was just happy to have him nearby.

And Jaskier wasn't interested, regardless. Nearly half of his stories were of failed courtships and love lost, each and every one starring a lovely maid. It was fine. Geralt could be satisfied with just Jaskier's friendship.

That, at least, he definitely had. Not two weeks into knowing Jaskier, Geralt had been introduced to all of Jaskier's friends—what felt like half the city.

The first outing had been a simple one. "The mummers have a new play on, and I agreed to help them spread the word. You'll come, won't you? Please, please come." Geralt couldn't say no.

Before the performance started, Jaskier dragged Geralt and chatted up almost every person they saw. "Geralt, this is Dudu, a good friend of mine," he introduced, pulling Geralt over to a richly dressed halfling with an armful of props.

Dudu glanced at them, but continued hurrying over to the stage. "Nice to meet you," he replied over his shoulder, and Jaskier, still holding Geralt's wrist in a light, warm, very distracting grip, followed him.

"You too," Geralt said, eyes on Jaskier's hand.

While following Dudu, they passed by Irina Renarde, the troupe leader ("Master Jaskier! Always glad for your patronage." "Irina! This one'll be the hit of the season, I can already tell."). Jaskier pointed out and named all the actors and stage hands (naturally, he was on first-name basis with all of them) as they scurried about in the backstage area. After a few minutes following Dudu, who bustled about scolding the other stage hands for scuffing the prop furniture and fetching the wrong tableware for the first scene, their threesome was finally called to a stop. Irina ran up to them, flicked her eyes hurriedly to Geralt, Jaskier, and back to Geralt, then finally rested them on Dudu. "Maxim hasn't shown, and it's five minutes to curtain. I'm sorry for the late warning, but if you wouldn't mind, Dudu…?" Dudu tensed slightly, eying Geralt and Jaskier in turn, but then sighed. Jaskier's hand on his wrist gripped slightly tighter. Before Geralt could wonder, though, the halfling grew taller and transformed into a dashing young man. A doppler, he thought absently. It was a good place for one to hide. What better understudy than one that could masquerade as the main actor? He met Geralt's eyes again, then, in challenge.

Geralt shook his head. "Don't hunt anything that's not doing harm. And I quit, anyways."

Dudu turned to face him fully for the first time since they were introduced, jaw dropping. It ruined his handsome new face. "You did _what?_ How do you quit being a witcher?" Geralt simply shrugged, but Dudu didn't wait for a response. "I can only imagine that was difficult. After all, as far as I'm aware, witcher isn't simply an occupation, it's part of who you are. Or, at least," he amended, "who you were made to be."

It was an apt observation. Geralt hummed in agreement, but Irena cut in and gave sharp orders for everyone to get in position. Jaskier gave her a quick finger wave and a smile before leading Geralt back to their seats.

Geralt struggled to interpret the flowery language of the play, and instead found himself enjoying Jaskier's reactions. He'd gasp in surprise, and laugh loudly, and tear up at various moments, throwing himself completely into the emotion of the play. He was the first on his feet by the end, applauding loudly, and once the stage emptied, he dragged Geralt to one of the theater buildings.

There they found Irina, and a young blonde girl that Geralt recognized as one of the actresses. The two women were in an enthusiastic conversation, but when they entered they both turned and broke into large grins.

"Jaskier! You came!" the actress yelled, sprinting the distance between them and jumping into Jaskier's arms. He had to quickly disentangle himself from Geralt in order to catch her, and pressed light kisses into her hair.

"Priscilla! You did so well, darling! How was your opening night as an actress?"

Irina approached Geralt as the other two conversed, arms swinging in wild gestures. "Did you like the play?" she asked. Geralt hummed. He had enjoyed himself, but for him, that didn't really have a lot to do with the play itself. He'd have enjoyed sewing fishing lines all day long if Jaskier would smile at him at the end of it.

Irina seemed to notice that his attention was elsewhere. "They're very similar, those two," she commented, following Geralt's gaze. "I think that's why things didn't work out."

"Hm?" Geralt questioned. He _had_ been noticing how good they looked together, but he didn't think it showed on his face. Maybe his control was slipping.

"Yes," Irina sighed dramatically, "they tried at first, of course. But Priscilla looks up to him, and her admiration made too much tension in their relationship—she'd force herself to make a better impression, Jaskier felt pressure to measure up to her imaginings… At any rate, they make far better friends." There was something hinted at in Irina's tone, but Geralt couldn't work it out. They parted amicably, and the words stayed with Geralt for a long time.

Not a week later, Jaskier's co-manager came back from a long trip.

"Geralt!" Jaskier called him over as he descended the stairs for breakfast. He had heard the lively conversation wafting up the stairs, but hadn't paid attention to the words—just the light, fluttery crescendos of Jaskier's voice, and the low voice responding, booming and gravelly at intervals.

As he trotted over (he was feeling a bit like a dog lately, with how he followed Jaskier's beck and call), he recognized the owner of the low voice as a copper-haired dwarf. Geralt was familiar with the traditional dwarven facial hair, but noted with faint surprise that his head was shaven on both sides, with only a column of hair down the center. He'd never seen that hairstyle before. Other than that, Geralt catalogued the details quickly—dirty, smelling of spirits and steel, well-worn boots, heavy coin pouch—and came to the conclusion that the dwarf must have just come back to the city, after some kind of job.

Jaskier took over introductions. "Zoltan, this is Geralt. Geralt, Zoltan is my co-manager." It made a lot of sense to Geralt, now, why the inn was so welcoming of non-humans. Though it wasn't even midday, Zoltan insisted on a round of beer, and Geralt found himself warming to the dwarf quickly. He was grounded and logical, fun-loving, and enthusiastic about alcohol, gambling, and fighting. He quickly challenged Geralt to a hand of gwent, and Geralt beat him soundly, after which he grumbled only slightly.

"How'd you get such good cards, anyway?" Zoltan asked. Jaskier had been called away to do his actual job, but Zoltan appeared to have the day off and kept drinking. Geralt had no plans either, so he stayed.

"A f—" Calling Dijkstra a friend was a bit of a stretch, actually. "An acquaintance set me up with a workable deck, and since then I've played a couple people for cards, making it stronger. It's a good pastime, and makes a good income. I… don't exactly get paid well."

"Oh? Always thought witchers didnae have a bad time about it," Zoltan replied, surprised.

"I'm not really a witcher anymore." Zoltan's eyebrows rose. "I'm…" Geralt didn't know what he was now. He was still doing a little witchering, a little bodyguarding, a little tracking. Every so often he'd put in a day at the docks doing manual labor. He helped people out on little requests, though he hardly ever earned actual money from them. "I guess I'm mainly unemployed, right now."

Zoltan hummed in interest. "Never heard of a witcher retiring."

Geralt quirked a smile. "Might be the first," he joked. "I pick up odds and ends though. Still need coin. If you ever need something done…"

"I'll think of you," Zoltan promised.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next two weeks, Geralt was invited on all sorts of errands with Jaskier. He'd be asked to help with the shopping, and Jaskier would take two hours chatting up the housewives gathered at the well, the butcher, the street performers, even calling out friendly hellos to strangers, and introducing every one of them to Geralt. Once the entirety of lowtown knew Geralt by name, Jaskier pestered him into escorting him to a ball.

"Jaskier, you know half the city, _none_ of those people are free?" Geralt argued, exasperated. He couldn't understand why Jaskier was so persistent about this. He wasn't good at high society, and was pretty sure that was obvious at a glance, let alone to someone who knew him as well as Jaskier did.

"As lovely as they are, I can't very well take a _prostitute_ to the Vegelbud's Yule ball," Jaskier fired back, more wound up than really angry. "And anyone who's _anyone_ is invited, or going with someone, and well… You're not. Going. And I'd like it if you were there." Jaskier stuttered a bit, going quiet and still, fidgeting only slightly. He took a deep breath and continued. "It'll be my first performance in a while, and I'd like you to be there."

Geralt gave in, mostly, the tension going out of his shoulders. That was sweet, and truth be told, Geralt would love to see Jaskier perform. "I don't have anything to wear," he protested weakly.

Jaskier snapped to attention, energy coming back full force. "Oh, _that_ won't be a problem."

Geralt was then introduced to Elihal, Jaskier's primary tailor. While he was measured and poked with pins and made to hold his arms this way and that, Jaskier and Elihal chattered on about fabrics and colors and the latest fashions at a speed that Geralt couldn't keep up with, despite his enhanced senses. One whirlwind of flashing needles later, Geralt had a new doublet and trousers, a wolf mask ("oh Geralt look, it's perfect, looks just like your medallion!"), and as soon as Jaskier had changed, they were off to the Vegelbud estate for the party.

Between bouts of Jaskier performing for the guests (and what a performance it was—Geralt didn't know much about music, but even he could tell Jaskier's songs were good, not to mention the bright smiles and salacious winks and the dancing… Jaskier knew how to involve a crowd, that was for sure), Geralt was introduced to the _other_ half of the city. The well-to-do half. Ingrid Vegelbud, their hostess, was a surprisingly level-headed and amiable person in comparison to most of the upper class people Geralt knew. When Geralt mentioned Roach, she invited him to race in the derby she sponsored. "I'd love to see someone dethrone my nephew, Luc. He's gotten quite conceited."

After politely disengaging with Ingrid, Geralt ran into Dijkstra. The pig mask fit him nicely. "What are you doing here?" He asked, biting back a snide comment about the mask. They may have been getting along okay recently, but that didn't wipe out all the past bitterness between them.

"Enjoying the party, much as anyone else," Dijkstra replied, not looking at him. Geralt's senses were on overdrive—Dijkstra's henchmen were all over the area, and though they blended in well with the guests, they had a dangerous aura about them that kept Geralt on edge. "What are _you_ doing here?" Dijkstra shot back.

"Escorting a friend," Geralt said blandly. He stared carefully at a fixed point to keep his eyes from wandering to Jaskier.

"Well," Dijkstra drawled, a smug smile creeping onto his face, "good you're making friends then." Geralt pointedly stopped himself from reading into that. "I'd introduce you to some people, but that would ruin the fun of the masquerade. Maybe after the fireworks."

"Hm." Geralt didn't mention that he would most likely (hopefully) be occupied with his "friend" at the end of the party, and was just grateful that he could easily disengage and distance himself from Dijkstra before Jaskier came back to look for him. But while walking away, he wondered what Dijkstra was getting out of introducing him to people.

It had happened a few times over the past weeks. Dijkstra would drop by somewhere while Geralt was bodyguarding him, but instead of being ignored as usual, Geralt would be ushered forward and introduced. To dukes and countesses, to Temple officials, to rich and shady merchants. It was helping Geralt—contracts from these contacts were much better paid than the ones he usually got, and after being introduced around the Temple Guard he was stopped on the street much less frequently, though the jeering didn't change much. But what was the end goal for Dijkstra? Geralt was firmly of the opinion that the world would freeze over before Dijkstra ever did anything out of the kindness of his heart. Geralt mulled over what enormous favor the spy was going to ask of him until Jaskier found him again.

"Geraaaalt!" Jaskier giggled, and Geralt on instinct swiped a hand out to catch him when Jaskier didn't manage to stop himself, saving him from barreling straight into the patio banister. He collapsed in Geralt's arms, bubbling with giggles and hiccups, and Geralt stood still as marble, just holding Jaskier's weight until he could pull himself together. It was the most blessed and cursed experience Geralt had ever had. Jaskier was warm, sweating slightly from all the dancing, which just made his scent that much more irresistible. And as he clung to Geralt's clothes, each breath that hit Geralt's skin through the fabric of his doublet sent hot sparks skittering along his skin. Geralt forgot to breath.

After an eternity that was over too soon, Jaskier composed himself enough to step back, though his fingers stayed tangled in Geralt's clothes, and sent a sunny, sloppy grin up at Geralt. "Here y'are," he slurred. He'd clearly had far too much to drink, but Geralt couldn't find his splotchy pink cheeks and grabby fingers anything but endearing. His eyes were bright and deep, deep blue behind the sparkly blue-green butterfly mask he'd chosen for the evening.

Geralt had to take a very purposeful breath in before responding. "Here I am," he replied, too distracted by taking in every detail of this moment to think of a proper response.

"C'me dance wi' me?" he asked, tugging Geralt lightly towards the music. Geralt hesitated. He had never really danced before, and while he was pretty sure Jaskier wouldn't judge him if he messed up (if he even remembered this at all in the morning), Geralt was still a little too sober to try making a fool of himself in front of an audience.

He tried to let Jaskier down as gently as possible. "You can hardly stand straight, I don't know that dancing is the best idea," he said, giving Jaskier the lightest one-finger shove that he knew how. Jaskier still stumbled to the left, and Geralt caught him again, pulling him against his side. Maybe it was selfish, but if Jaskier wasn't going to remember the night anyways, Geralt was going to soak up as much physical contact as he could manage.

Jaskier grumbled for a moment, but not long after the fireworks were announced, and he cheered up again, pushing and prodding at Geralt to find them a good vantage point. Geralt cheated slightly, and picked Jaskier up before hoisting himself up onto the carriage house and settling Jaskier in his lap. Selfish. He hugged Jaskier slightly closer. It was cold, he reasoned to himself. He was just keeping Jaskier warm. When the fireworks started, Jaskier lit up, oohing and ahhing over the different colors, but after not even a minute, he subsided again.

He curled into himself, sitting crosswise on Geralt's lap, fidgeting and flitting glances at Geralt's face. Under the slight glow of the stars and the fireworks, Geralt could see Jaskier's cheeks darken slightly.

"G'ralt?" His voice was quiet, tentative, under the boom of the fireworks. He leaned forward and let out one tiny breath over Geralt's lips before pressing a kiss to them. Geralt's breath stopped for the second time that night. Jaskier backed off enough for their eyes to meet, then lowered his eyes bashfully. "T'nk you," he mumbled, burying his head in Geralt's shoulder.

Thank you? For? Geralt tightened his hold to ensure Jaskier wouldn't fall while his mind went into overload, turning over the words this way and that. What did it mean? Did Jaskier kiss people as thanks a lot? Was this normal? Would Jaskier remember this in the morning? What if he didn't?

The fireworks show ended with Geralt not having seen a single one. Jaskier ended up falling asleep on his shoulder, but Lady Vegelbud was kind enough to offer them a room for the night. Geralt removed Jaskier's mask and shoes and tucked him into the double bed, then sat in the corner in meditation all night, trying desperately to stop his mind from spinning. In the morning, Jaskier complained loudly about a hangover and effusively praised Lady Vegelbud's party when they said goodbye in the foyer, and Geralt stayed silent and didn't put to words any of the pressing questions running through his mind. By the time they returned to the city, Geralt came to the conclusion that Jaskier had meant nothing of it, and either way, had probably forgotten it happened in the first place.

By this point, Geralt felt like he knew half the city. There were still unfamiliar faces here and there, but he couldn't go a single block without passing at least one person he knew, and now, all of them smiled and greeted him.

But his acquaintance with Dijkstra was getting more and more serious. Along with the new introductions, he also entered Geralt in a number of tournaments—gwent, fistfighting, horse racing—and Geralt won handily, splitting the obscene prizes between the two of them. While the gambling was his only real source of income, his natural luck and Dijkstra's instruction landed him earning more coin than he really knew what to do with.

He indulged himself in buying some nicer armor and weapons, restocking on potions ingredients, and prepaying his food and board for a few months. But he still had more money than he could wrap his head around. So he spent it where he could.

He sponsored Irina's theater. He donated money to Kate's for renovations, to get all the girls their own rooms. He fronted the unreasonable non-human tax on smithing metal so the elven swordmaster, Éibhear, could craft again. Whenever Jaskier mentioned a friend in trouble, Geralt made an anonymous donation, just to see him chat about it elatedly the next day. After all, he had no use for the money just sitting around.

And one day, Dijkstra introduced him to the rest of the Big Four. He had seen them around before, at the races and the casino and the arena, but this was a proper introduction. And after introductions, they entered a proper meeting. Geralt puzzled about it the whole way through, but the realization he came to was so unrealistic he couldn't wrap his head around it. Yet there seemed no other answer.

Dijkstra had been grooming him to be a crime lord, and the others had just accepted him into the running.

He had an admittedly bad relationship with them at the start, and had never really warmed to Whoreson Junior (who could?), but the others were much more accepting of him than he'd first expected. Or at least, they respected his strength, skills, and gambling luck. He still had no clue as to Dijkstra's endgame, but once he began winning in tournaments and gambling around the city, Cleaver would occasionally give him a cool congratulations. And though Francis Bedlam, the King of Beggars, was hard to read, he began talking to Geralt like an equal, someone worthy of respect. Whoreson's men continued to challenge him on the streets (it was accepted, at this point, that Whoreson was both incapable and unwilling to control his men), but Cleaver's henchdwarves and Bedlam's thieves avoided contact as much as possible. Almost like… they had been ordered to leave him alone.

It was at this point that Geralt had a little crisis of interest. Since arriving in Novigrad, he'd tried not to think as much as possible. He went with his gut instinct, and just followed where the road took him. But a crime lord? Was that really what he wanted to be?

"White Wolf! Out alone today?"

Geralt looked up. The nickname was still fairly new, but Jaskier had given it to him, so he liked it. The baker's wife, who'd called him, was out in front of her shop, baby strapped to her breast and shopping basket in hand. Jaskier always gushed over her sweets, and had brought Geralt there many times. She always left the day's leftovers carefully wrapped in the alley for the beggars. When he first got to the city and was living in the streets, Geralt had also taken advantage of her kindness.

He nodded, and she smiled timidly at him. "Are you in a hurry?" she asked, holding out the basket. Geralt shook his head, and took the basket, staring at her in wonder. He knew intellectually that the people of the area knew him, liked him even. But it was such a new experience that it continually surprised him. The witcher Geralt would never have been casually asked to help with the shopping.

He followed her to the open market, a silent shadow, and watched as she greeted the townsfolk as they passed. And in watching, he noticed something that he'd ignored before. As she passed and chatted with the wives at the well, waved to the bards in the square, and called greetings to the townsfolk passing in the streets on their way, they greeted _him_ too.

"White Wolf! Good morning!"

"Good day, sir!"

"Morning, boss!"

… _Boss?_ Geralt had heard people call him that in passing over the last month or so, but he never had time to stop and ask them about it, so he shrugged it off and ignored it. Now, with the realization that he was being primed as a crime lord, the word held a little more weight.

The baker's wife turned to him, holding a head of cabbage, and he held out the basket on instinct. She smiled, and dropped it in. "You know," she began, turning back to look for more vegetables, "it's taken a turn for the better here, since you came." She added carrots and turnips, paid the vendor, and led Geralt to another stall. "Fewer ruffians in the streets, fewer monsters in the sewers. Was talking to Brianna the other day, she said how much nicer it is from Junior's day! Course, the market is the King's area, so it's decently safe, normally, of course, but it's always a bother when every other shopping trip gets stolen… Keeps the beating down, but the thieving's just as much of a problem."

A few things clicked into place in Geralt's head as she yammered away, poking through the fruit stall. Firstly, that the townsfolk were much more in tune to the crime syndicate than he'd previously thought. Secondly, that from her perspective, and probably the perspective of all the townsfolk in the area, he already _was_ a crime lord. And thirdly, that he was _making a difference._ Life was better, she said. Looking around, he could see it was true. The vendors smiled at him when he caught their eye, and in the alley, he spotted a shady character, who turned and ran when he made eye contact.

Maybe this life wasn't so bad.

He had more money than he'd earned in his entire life until then. He was foolishly in love with the most harmless human he'd ever met. He was working the jobs he wanted to, finally, not just hunting down any monster he'd be paid for. He was keeping people safe.

He didn't exactly feel good about his acquaintance with the crime lords, but… He didn't feel entirely bad about it either. He'd met worse lords. At the very least, though, he decided that he would do business his way. He wouldn't follow Cleaver's example, or the Bedlam's example, and he definitely wouldn't follow Whoreson Junior's example. He wouldn't turn back on his morals, not when he finally felt like he could listen to them.


	4. Chapter 4

In his new leadership position, Geralt knew he'd need to do more than threaten a few thieves away. But at least his place of power meant he could decide the rules himself. No more taking jobs for slimeballs. No more getting cheated out of money. No more being talked down to.

He found out his territory by quietly probing some close friends. The brothel madames quickly allied with him, and for posterity, he bought the brothels, though he left them to manage themselves. Farcorners, he learned, hadn't been claimed anyways, due to being outside the city walls. But that just made crime worse there, and Geralt's influence even more evident. He also absorbed the southwest side of The Bits, originally Whoreson Junior's territory. That was the most contended area of his new territory, as Whoreson's men didn't know when to let off, and would periodically cross over to Geralt's side, just to see if he noticed. Geralt noticed.

He realized very quickly that he'd have to organize some kind of gang to keep his territory protected, and there were already some obvious choices for members. Zoltan's crew of dwarves was his first pick, for a number of reasons. He'd seen them fight before, and they were good. He was also already familiar with them, and Zoltan he'd even consider a friend. Also, he was hoping to leverage his new position and get into smuggling. Not anything dangerous—he wouldn't touch fisstech or any other drugs with a 10-foot pole—but he noticed that non-humans were taxed outrageously for any import items, and hoped to step in as a middleman to get them fairer prices. Zoltan's men frequently ran caravan protection, so looking forward, he could use some men with their expertise.

The big problem, of course, was Jaskier. The man didn’t seem to catch on to exactly what Geralt's job was, but it was only a matter of time. That was the one thing that Geralt wanted to avoid at all costs. Jaskier was the purest soul in the world, who smelled like sunshine and lavender and deserved to be protected from the darkness of the world.

"Zoltan."

"Geralt!" The dwarf clasped his forearm in a warm shake. "What can I do for ya?"

Geralt had asked Zoltan to the Golden Sturgeon for drinks, just to make sure Jaskier wouldn't overhear. He waited for the barmaid serving them to leave, then replied. "Don't know if you've heard, but I've gotten in pretty close with the syndicate here in Novigrad."

"The Big Four? Oh yes, I've heard. Big Five soon, I bet," Zoltan said, leaning forward in interest.

Great. On one hand, Geralt was glad he wouldn't have to explain. He wasn't even sure he knew enough concretely _to_ explain. On the other hand, did _everyone_ know before he did? He sighed. "Yeah, well, as you might've guessed, I don't exactly have a gang, and I've just realized I have some territory to protect now." Zoltan nodded a little too quickly to mask his emotions. "Was wondering if you and your boys were up for hire."

"For you? Of course! Was wondering when you'd ask," Zoltan cheered, slamming his stein on the table and holding it out for a refill. "They'll be back later this week with a caravan from Kerack, I'll bring 'em by and we can hash out the details."

Geralt hummed, then said, "not at the Rosemary."

Zoltan made a questioning noise halfway through a sip of beer. "Why not? We'll both be there, 's more convenient. Why'd you bring us out to the Sturgeon, anyways?"

Geralt frowned, shaking his head. "Not going to do this kind of business with Jaskier right there," he explained.

"And why not? He may be a little flimsy, but he's a pal of mine. He's no wilting flower."

Geralt knew that. Jaskier could be a little spitfire when he was upset about something. He'd fearlessly defended Geralt when he got stopped by the Temple Guard one night, hissing and spitting in their faces for questioning him without cause. Geralt was used to it, of course, but it was touching to have Jaskier stand up for him.

"No, I know that," Geralt replied. "But I don't want him involved in this stuff." Zoltan didn't look convinced. "It's not safe," Geralt tried. "I don't want to see him hurt."

That finally triggered an understanding in Zoltan. "Ah, so _that's_ how it is." The dwarf grinned knowingly. "Well, can't say he'll be thrilled if he finds out, but I won't be the one spilling the beans, you can be sure of that." Geralt was pretty sure that Zoltan had gotten the wrong impression, but as long as he wouldn't talk, Geralt wasn't complaining.

Geralt felt bad about lying, of course, but he was sure the criminal business was the final straw that would make Jaskier run for the hills, and he couldn't make himself let the man go just yet.

The rest of the gang came together fairly smoothly. Geralt reached out to all the Farcorners elves he remembered struggling for work. He hired on some Skellige warriors whose trading business failed and stranded them in Novigrad, and took in any brothel girls who wanted to get out of the business. He trained the men up in basic tracking and fighting skills, and assigned them mixed patrol groups—elf, dwarf, and human trios, when he could—so they could learn from and support each other. The prejudice against non-humans in the city was getting worse by the day, and while it mostly felt out of his hands, Geralt certainly wasn't going to contribute to it.

Despite his best efforts to keep his work away from Jaskier though, he didn't have a base for his organization. And because he was living out of the Rosemary and Thyme, his men came to report to him at the inn. Sometimes in front of Jaskier. It worried him, and he decided, once he'd gathered together a decent group to work for him, to find a new headquarters. He'd separate business and pleasure, and maybe his friendship with Jaskier would survive.

Before he could act on his decision, however, Jaskier came to him with a confession.

"Geralt, I realize this may be silly, but we've known each other for a while now, and I consider you a good friend. And, well, I don't mean to make things awkward, but… I like you. As-as more than a friend. And I just—maybe you don't swing that way, that's fine—but I've been flirting for a while and it's come to my attention that you might not have noticed, so I thought I'd put it in words because otherwise… Well, I don't know. I just thought you should hear it. Properly. We-we can stay as friends. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. …Did I mess things up? Geralt? Is this okay?"

Geralt froze, gaping like a dead possum, staring at Jaskier. How could this perfect person have feelings for him? He'd ruin him, Geralt was sure of that.

And yet, when Jaskier touched him in concern, Geralt couldn't restrain himself. He swooped Jaskier easily off his feet, leaning up to brush their lips together. He was no wordsmith, but surely that was enough of an answer.

Not long after, Geralt moved into Jaskier's room. Jaskier claimed that he felt bad making Geralt pay for a room when he'd end up in Jaskier's room anyway. Geralt had no problems with this, but it undermined his decision to move out so entirely that he gave up on it. He was sure Jaskier would figure out his job someday, but until then, Geralt was committed to enjoying the time they had together.

So he began showering Jaskier in gifts: silks and perfumes and jewels, anything that caught Jaskier's eye when they went out to the market together. It was all an attempt to cover how bad he was at expressing his emotions with actions. He just hoped and prayed that Jaskier could see that. (It also worked as a ploy to distract Jaskier from Geralt's work meetings, increasingly held in Jaskier's view at the Rosemary, but Geralt desperately hoped that Jaskier _didn't_ notice _that_.)

And Jaskier seemed to enjoy the attention. Regardless of how many times he received gifts, he'd still react with the same joyous expression. His heart would beat faster and his scent would sweeten. The reaction was so lovely, Geralt worked hard to come up with more and more ways to produce it. He paid young beggars to bring Jaskier fresh flowers every morning, which Jaskier would use to decorate their room. He got Jaskier a new lute, of fancy elven craftsmanship, which made Jaskier gasp and sigh as he stroked it gently. He set aside jewels every now and again to bring to a jeweler, who made rings and necklaces and brooches and bracelets for Jaskier. Jaskier ended up wearing so much jewelry it would look garish on a lesser man. On Jaskier, though, it just looked right.

Finally, Geralt thought of the ultimate gift. He came up with an arbitrary reason to bring Jaskier out to the country for a day and a night. Jaskier, thinking it was a romantic trip, was already overjoyed. The minute they left the city, Geralt's gang convened under orders to have the Rosemary and Thyme fully renovated and furnished by the time they returned.

Geralt had heard of Jaskier's dreams for his cabaret so many times he could recite them in his sleep. He picked out the style Jaskier would prefer, the colors, the fabrics, the furniture. He was confident that it would look exactly as it did in Jaskier's head when he was imagining it.

On their return, Geralt may have rushed Roach a bit, eager for Jaskier's reaction to his gift. Jaskier opened the door, and his hands flew to his mouth to cover a high-pitched yelp of surprise. His fingers flashed with the jewels Geralt gave him, and it made him puff up his chest slightly, pleased to have laid his mark. Geralt waited for the scent of surprise to fade, but then smelled… salt? He circled Jaskier, to see him crying rivers of silent tears, streaking down his cheeks and hands.

He knelt down, alarmed, and took one of Jaskier's hands in his. "What's wrong?"

Jaskier shook his head, sniffling. "I-it's perfect. N-no one's ever d-done something like this for me." His voice wobbled, and he broke off into a cough of laughter, before tilting forward, trusting Geralt to catch him. He did. "I love you, darling." Geralt nuzzled his ear, unable to form the words, but Jaskier seemed to understand. "You don't need to say it back—you've said plenty already," he said, gesturing to the room. Jaskier took in a shaky breath, then continued, "please never leave me."

"Never," Geralt vowed, though the thought flashed in the back of his head that Jaskier may still leave him, if he ever found out about Geralt's work. But Geralt wouldn't be the one leaving, in any case. He couldn't.

And despite his attempts to keep work as far away from Jaskier as possible, the new establishment—the Chameleon, Jaskier's dream cabaret—became the headquarters of Geralt's business. The first floor was plain long tabled seating, with a stage for performances. They had their own dancers, musicians, and choreographer. Jaskier insisted on writing the music himself. They also hosted special performances. Any budding entertainer could sign up to perform, and Jaskier vetted the applicants personally to make sure they were of the proper quality to be on their stage.

The second floor had private rooms—a few bedrooms, a storeroom, and one fancy meeting room. It was here that Geralt received his business associates. Over time, Geralt would improve the meeting room—put in a bar with his best liquor, soundproof and magic-proof it.

The third floor was where Geralt lived with Jaskier. Every new day, he couldn't believe how lucky he was to wake up beside him. And every new day, he worried that Jaskier would find out what he actually did for a living and leave him.

Jaskier was the best thing to ever happen to him. By the time they started their relationship, Geralt had a number of people he could consider friends in the city. But Jaskier soothed his guilt when he remembered all the people he couldn't save. Jaskier understood when Geralt told him about all the monsters he'd saved. Jaskier didn't pester him for details when he was having trouble getting the words out. Jaskier kissed all his scars and held him close at night when he remembered how cold and lonely nights were out on the Path.

Jaskier was so accepting, and so good, Geralt couldn't imagine a future where he didn't lose him.


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt had been in Novigrad for about half a year before he was visited by Triss.

"Geralt," she greeted when she entered The Chameleon, eyebrows raised as she took in the surroundings. Geralt was in a partly shaded booth in the back, having drinks with Zoltan and some of his gang. He'd had the booth made specifically so it was inconspicuous, but gave him line of sight on every entry point on the first floor. She paused, pursing her lips. "I had heard you were here, but I have to say, I don't think I really expected to find you in… a place like this."

"And who's this, boss?" one of the dwarves asked. Triss blinked at him, as if she hadn't even seen him there.

Geralt leaned forward, taking a swig of his beer and signaling to the waitress before responding. "Triss Merigold. An old friend." The waitress brought him a refill, as well as another beer for Triss. Smart girl.

Triss waited, still standing, until she realized Geralt wouldn't continue. "And these are…?"

"My men," Geralt said shortly, taking his beer and leaning back in his seat.

Triss looked around for a seat, and Figgo generously scooted further into the booth to make room, but instead she pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat facing Geralt. She was both sitting tense and lightly, and looked incredibly uncomfortable. Geralt was curious as to why she was there, but decided to throw her a rope. "What have you been up to?"

Triss took a hesitant sip of beer, and licked her lips. "I came to Novigrad to set up shop. I have a place in the city center, just south of Hierarch Square." She tapped her fingers against the beer stein, then met Geralt's gaze and held it. "I didn't expect you to be here though."

Geralt shrugged, keeping her gaze. "I set up shop too," he replied, nonchalant. The men sniggered. Geralt was very aware of the tension between them, but if she was going to accuse him of something, she'd have to come out and say it. There was plenty to accuse for—leaving so abruptly, not mentioning where he was going, becoming a crime lord… She just had to pick one, really.

"Oh?" She intoned with a false, high voice. "And what are you selling, exactly?" Yeah, she definitely knew. He refused to fold.

"This and that." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Something you needed?"

She hesitated, and bit her lip, glancing around nervously. "Can we talk in private?"

Geralt didn't blame her for not wanting to talk in public, surrounded by people she didn't know, but this was Geralt's headquarters. These were his people. And with the weird tension between them, he felt bizarrely safer with them around. Unthinkable for a witcher to feel safe in a crowd, but he supposed he wasn't a witcher anymore.

"No," he replied, after a lengthy pause. Her eyes widened, clearly not expecting that. "Anything you can say to me you can say to them."

The dwarves grinned, jostling each other happily over the trust put in them. Triss sighed. "I… heard through the grapevine that you were offering some… services, and I came to see if the rumors were true," she said.

"What do you need?"

She sighed, and caved. "The witch hunters are getting bolder. They're starting to harass mages more openly, and their excuses for locking us up are getting thinner and thinner." She paused again, flicking her eyes up to Geralt's and away again. She must have seen something that decided her, because she straightened and continued. "I think within the next month mages are going to need to go underground. Wait too long, and harassment will turn to outright violence and killings in the street. I heard you had some experience relocating people."

It was true. Geralt had helped a number of non-humans move, mostly into buildings that he now owned. Zoltan and his crew all lived in a house Geralt had bought, mostly just to save them the trek from their old home.

Mages, though… He didn't really deal much with mages. Yet.

As he was pondering, Jaskier burst through the door. "Geralt!" He cried in excitement, stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to their little corner. The dwarves scooted away, giving Geralt a wide berth as Jaskier scrambled over the table into his lap. It wasn't an unusual scene. Jaskier pet Geralt's shoulders, down his chest, through his hair, wherever his hands could reach. And babbled. "I just went to see Irina, you know they have that new play on, and she said—"

A _thunk_ from the other side of the table interrupted him as Triss' stein dropped to the floor, and he blinked and turned around. "Oh!" He exclaimed, registering Triss for the first time. "Terribly sorry, miss, was I interrupting something…?" He turned to Geralt, directing the question to him.

Geralt hummed unhelpfully. It was, in the strictest measure, an interruption, but it was a happy interruption. Geralt would love to deal with those kinds of interruptions for the rest of his life. He redirected his gaze from Jaskier to Triss, who was gaping like a fish. It was a very unattractive expression, and that was saying something, because Triss had a very attractive face.

Jaskier twirled a strand of Geralt's hair. "Darling?" He questioned. Geralt hummed again. "Introduce me to this lovely lady?" Ah. Right.

"This is Triss Merigold. An old friend." He paused a brief second, then continued. Jaskier deserved more than that. "And former lover. She's a sorceress." It would've been horrible if Jaskier found out Triss was a lover from anyone else. At least if Geralt does it, he can be around to reassure Jaskier of his affections before he gets any weird jealous ideas in his head.

Jaskier's hands clenched briefly in Geralt's shirt at "former lover," but he stayed cheerful. "How lovely! I'm Jaskier, owner of this establishment and Geralt's lover." He folded himself awkwardly sideways, offering Triss his hand while staying firmly in Geralt's lap. "Nice to meet you!" There was a tiny edge in Jaskier's voice, and Geralt rubbed his thumbs soothingly on Jaskier's hip and thigh where he was holding him steady. As flattering as the jealousy was, it was unnecessary.

Triss took Jaskier's hand in a short, terse handshake. "Nice to meet you too," she replied, eyes shifting questioningly between him and Geralt. Geralt met her eyes, but didn't offer any explanation besides wrapping his arms more firmly around Jaskier.

Jaskier turned back to him and continued talking as though he didn't notice the tension. "Terribly sorry, dear heart, I didn't notice you had a guest. Shall I come find you later then?" He tugged lightly on Geralt's hair, and Geralt obediently lifted his face so Jaskier could lay a chaste (if longer than polite) kiss on his lips. He didn't wait for a reply before untangling himself from Geralt and rushing off to the bar, waving back at them as he went. "Nice meeting you, Miss Merigold!"

With his lover's blessing, Geralt decided the tension had been sufficiently cut, and waved off the dwarves, who all clapped him on the shoulder as they vacated the booth. Geralt then stood, ushering Triss upstairs to the room he used to entertain business guests. He had an array of pretty high-end alcohol there, and went about serving a wine he recalled Triss liking as she poked about the room.

"I didn't expect to find you in Novigrad," she began. "After everything. I thought you hated big cities." She said it mildly, but her eyes flicked to him accusingly. It must have smarted, being left without a word after everything they'd been through. He hummed and took a drink of wine, offering her another goblet. She took it daintily in her hands, and blinked in surprise after her first sip. He quirked his lips in a small smile. It was refreshing to surprise her in small ways. "I had heard that a witcher had joined the Syndicate, but I didn't truly believe it until I saw you here. What happened?"

Geralt sat heavily in a plush armchair, and Triss mirrored him, sitting more carefully. How to explain? "I got tired." Geralt frowned, unable to find the words to express how he felt, staring down his blade at Letho. "There was too much… too many expectations. Too much politics."

"And this is less politics?" She countered sharply.

"I didn't go looking for this. I wanted something new. Wanted to disappear." He huffed, remembering his first months in Novigrad. "Turns out you can't disappear, looking like this." Her eyes softened, more sympathetic. With her flame-red hair, she couldn't disappear into a crowd either. "Dijkstra found me, made me into this."

"And you let him?" Triss sounded shocked. Geralt couldn't blame her. He could hardly believe it himself.

"It's not all bad," he argued. "Turns out there's a lot you can do for people from a place of power." Triss opened her mouth, but Geralt cut her off. "I thought that's why you were here."

She froze, sighed, and took another long sip of her wine. "I need to disappear from my shop. And I have friends who will need to start going underground, within the next month, or get out of the city entirely. Where to go, I haven't exactly figured out yet. But Felicia Cori was arrested just yesterday. For no reason, far as I can tell. I've heard stories of the prisons. They're torturing people, Geralt." Triss bit her lip, and continued with a slight wobble to her voice. " There's nothing I can do for her, now, but the others… The other mages can still be saved." She looked at Geralt, a fierce light in her eyes. "Caleb Menge, the new head witch hunter, is bad news. They've started closing down the city, restricting travel in and out. And I've heard whispers they'll start public… burnings, soon. I suggest you stay far, far away from him. But can you help?"

Geralt leaned back in his chair, having leaned in closer during the course of the conversation. Triss' information seemed accurate. Geralt and the rest of the crime lords had already cut a deal with the Temple of the Eternal Fire to be supplied with the "passes" that would soon be needed to enter the city. And even the streetcorner priests talked about how sin needed to be "burned away." For a fanatic like Menge, public burnings were the next clear step.

"I'll help," he agreed shortly. Of course he would. It wasn't any skin off his back, he had the resources to do so, and… Well, despite the recent sentiment against mages, there were still many in need of their services, and having a few he could call on for favors would definitely prove useful.

In this way, Geralt worked with Triss to set up housing for a dozen or so mages over the next month, and more after that, whenever Triss got word of a new acquaintance in need. He hid them with any people he felt trustworthy—the brothels, the houses of his men, Salma's apartment, Éibhear's shop… When he ran out of buildings with room, he went looking for more.

One particularly memorable new acquisition was a "haunted" house he bought cheap from a banker. Upon visiting the place, he found it was inhabited by a godling, Sarah, who played pranks on any would-be occupants to scare them away. He sat down with her and struck a deal: she could keep the house as long as she let some of his friends live there too. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as Sarah and her new housemate, oneiromancer Corinne Tilly, got along marvelously.

In return for his help in resettling them, and due to the fact that they couldn't easily show their faces around the city, Geralt became a middleman for the mages, finding them work in exchange for a cut of their profits. He was as fair as he could manage, which sometimes meant taking losses, and always sent them to jobs with protection, but he hadn't lost any to the witch hunts yet.

However, things were clearly getting worse. He was present at the first burning at Hierarch Square, and sure enough saw Felicia Cori strung up next to a doppler Geralt knew years ago. Caleb Menge was there on the platform lighting the fires himself, and as Geralt glared up at him, Menge met his eyes and smiled nastily. It felt like a challenge. Geralt stopped by the square frequently after that to see if any new faces were burning at the stake, and despite hiding as many mages as Triss could find, still more ended up burning each week.

Of course, with all the work he was doing with Triss, she was dropping by The Chameleon almost every day. Geralt was initially worried, but Jaskier was his normal cheerful self, and after no time at all, he found them chatting amiably at the bar, trading stories about him. He was grateful that Triss seemed to instinctively know not to bring up Geralt's current work to Jaskier.

"You know," she said, once they'd stepped away upstairs again, "I wasn't sure what to think about it at first, but now I can see why you fell for him." She gave him a quiet smile, then turned stern. "You better be careful with him, though. Don't be an idiot and push him away. He deserves more than that."


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt's position in the city came in handy when an ashen-haired girl started poking around looking for a mage. It was an innocent-enough description, but Geralt knew somehow, instinctively, that it was Ciri. His daughter-by-destiny. He got his men to keep a lookout, and the minute he heard she was loitering at the Golden Sturgeon, he was out the door. He hadn't even thought of what he was going to tell Jaskier.

Ciri was sitting in a corner, talking to a barmaid who scurried away as he approached. Ciri looked up at him, and her green eyes brightened. "Ger—" She stopped, seeming to remember where she was, and spoke more softly. "I didn't expect to find _you_ here! How did you find me?"

Geralt shook his head, but couldn't keep a smile off his face. She had grown so much, yet some parts of her seem not to have changed at all. "A lot has changed. Come on, we'll talk somewhere more private."

She readily followed him out of the tavern, and though she was surprised when they were joined by a few of his men who were loitering outside, she didn't comment. Geralt took a roundabout route back to the Chameleon, through Silverton and The Bits, using the narrow alleyways to avoid patrols. Ciri was clearly in hiding, and though his position gave him some amount of protection from the temple guard, he wasn't going to risk anything with her.

They slipped into the back door of the cabaret, and Geralt led her upstairs—not to the entertaining rooms, but to his own living space, shared with Jaskier. Geralt symbolically took off his swords and leaned them against the bed, showing Ciri without words that they were in a safe space. She relaxed, and took off her cape and sword as well.

And then ran up and hugged him. He hugged back firmly, lifting her onto her toes. She had gotten so _big!_ He last remembered her only coming up to his hip, and now she was nearly as tall as him, though part of that was likely the high heeled boots she was wearing. And she was beautiful. He always knew she would be devastating when grown. Yennefer would kill to see her.

_Yennefer._ Geralt hadn't seen her in years. He hoped, a little wishfully, that she'd not overreact over his relationship with Jaskier next time they met.

"Oh, it's so good to see you," Ciri was saying. "But why are you in Novigrad? I thought you normally kept to smaller villages. More contracts there."

"Hm," he responded, a little distracted by watching her poke around the room, enthralled by the fact that she was real and there in front of him. "I quit." She turned on her heel to face him, surprised. "Wasn't working out. Too much politics."

Ciri let out a shocked laugh. "You quit being a witcher?"

He hummed and nodded, sitting at the foot of the bed and patting the space beside him. She obligingly joined him. "I'm semi-retired," he explained. "I manage some brothels, help out some mages and non-humans, get the odd monster hunt if it's close enough." He remembered the reports that she was looking for a mage. "What are you doing here? Heard you needed a mage."

She nodded. "Yes, I do. I'm fleeing from the Wild Hunt. I was traveling with an elven sage, Avallac'h, but Eredin cursed him with this." She pulled out a complicated instrument that hummed with magic. "I need a mage to fix it, so the curse can be broken."

Geralt knew Avallac'h, and didn't exactly trust him. But if Ciri did… "You trust him?"

"I do," she replied, nodding. "He's taught me a lot about how to control my powers, and saved me countless times. Sometimes, like the last when he was cursed, at his own expense."

Geralt nodded, convinced enough. "I can get you a mage. Stay here. Novigrad's streets are dangerous these days." Ciri complained briefly about being left behind like a child, but ultimately agreed to stay, and Geralt went to fetch Triss. When they got back, he realized that he'd forgotten to tell Jaskier about Ciri. He found them together in the room.

"Geralt!" Jaskier jumped up from where he had been sitting, talking with Ciri. "You never told me you had a daughter!" He didn't seem particularly upset, but Geralt felt like he needed to apologize anyways.

"Sorry…" He tried to think of an excuse, and came up empty. "Didn't occur to me until she showed up."

Jaskier huffed dramatically at him, and Triss took that moment to enter behind him. "Little sis!" she exclaimed, running to Ciri. Ciri stood to hug her.

"Triss! I didn't think— Thank you for coming. Can you help?" Triss made eye contact with Geralt over Ciri's shoulder, and he tilted his head to the stairs. She nodded slightly, and stepped back.

"I'll do my best. Why don't we go downstairs and you can show me what you need fixed."

Geralt and Jaskier were left standing a few feet apart, and Geralt shifted awkwardly. He was used to Jaskier being handsy, and didn't know what to do now that Jaskier was keeping a distance. "I didn't mean to keep it from you." He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling chastised, although Jaskier hadn't yet done anything.

"Geralt," Jaskier called, and Geralt lifted his eyes immediately. Jaskier smiled slightly at the quick response and beckoned him. "Come here."

Geralt obediently approached, and Jaskier reached up and pulled Geralt with him as he sat down, hugging Geralt's shoulders. When he let go, Geralt pulled back only slightly, settling crouched between Jaskier's legs on the floor. Jaskier rested his arms on Geralt's shoulders, twirling his hair in his fingers. "Tell me about her?"

So Geralt sat and told Jaskier everything he could think of. How he got her as a Surprise Child. How he trained her at Kaer Morhen. He explained what he understood of her powers, and what she had told him of her current situation. When he had run out of words, Jaskier cupped his face and pressed their foreheads together. "Darling. I know you've lived a whole other lifetime before me. I'm not mad you didn't tell me about your daughter, especially considering that she's in hiding and you hadn't expected her to show up." A little of the tension ran out of Geralt's shoulders. "But," Jaskier added, pulling away slightly to give Geralt a silly grin, "you at least need to _warn_ me if we're going to have company! Look at this mess! I haven't cleaned all week, I've been so busy!"

Geralt leaned forward to kiss Jaskier. He loved him. He wasn't angry that Geralt had hid things from him. It gave him a little hope that maybe their relationship wouldn't be ruined by Geralt's job. But the conversation also reminded Geralt that even if Jaskier ended up staying with him for his entire life, Jaskier was human. He would grow old and die before Geralt. Their time together was limited.

"Oh!" Geralt turned to see Ciri in the doorway, Triss right behind her. Ciri seemed shocked still, but Triss called out to him.

"Geralt! This is a difficult curse, I'm taking the phylactery home to work on it. Come over for a progress report tomorrow, I may need you to fetch me some things." Geralt nodded, and Triss left.

He then stood and offered Jaskier a hand up. "Ciri, this is Jaskier. My lover." If he could blush, he would have then. "Jaskier, Ciri. My daughter."

Ciri gave a wry smile. "We've met, though I didn't realize your relationship the first time around." She stepped forward and briskly shook Jaskier's hand. "A lot has changed, indeed. Do you know what's happened to Yennefer? I asked Triss, but…"

Jaskier looked between them askance, and Geralt sighed. "A former lover. Also a sorceress," he explained, squeezing Jaskier's hand reassuringly.

Jaskier pouted slightly. "You seem to have a penchant for sorceresses."

Geralt shook his head. "Had."

Ciri looked confused. "Also?"

"Triss."

"You were with Triss? When?"

Geralt thought back. "Give or take a year ago."

"Wow." Ciri shook her head. "It seems we both have a good deal to catch up on."

Ciri moved into one of the rooms on the second floor, and stayed for a week and a bit while Triss and her fellow mages worked on fixing the phalactery. In the meantime, she and Geralt caught up, spent time together wandering the city (incognito, of course), and visited the circus in Farcorners. Ciri also spent a number of afternoons while Geralt was working chatting the hours away with Jaskier.

Geralt stumbled upon them out in the back alley of the Chameleon once. Jaskier was strumming his lute and singing to her, and Ciri was spinning in a very proper dance with an invisible partner. He watched a moment from a distance—his two most precious people, laughing together—before his heart felt like it might burst from emotion, and spurred him to cut in and take Ciri in his arms. Ciri let out a huff of surprise and Jaskier stumbled a few notes, but they both continued, and Geralt picked up the steps quickly, spinning Ciri out and back and lifting her into the air. As the song came to a close, she hugged him tight, pressing her scarred cheek to his shoulder, heart thumping wildly in her chest. Geralt wished this moment would last forever.

"Geralt!" Jaskier gasped, putting aside his lute and wagging a finger at him playfully. "You never said you could dance like that!"

"I was saving myself from the fifty balls you attend each season," he grumbled, muffling his words in Ciri's hair. She hid her giggles in his shirt.

Jaskier made an overblown gesture of appalled shock, and that combined with the dramatic "why I never—!" reassured Geralt that Jaskier had no hard feelings. Still, maybe he owed Jaskier something. He loosened his hold, and Ciri stepped back, then he reached out a hand to Jaskier. Jaskier took it, then stumbled out a protest. "B-but we don't have any music…"

A slow, crooning song drifted out of the conveniently propped-open door to the Chameleon, and Ciri leaned smug against the door frame. Clever girl. Jaskier looked like he was processing the moment slowly, so Geralt pulled him into position and started to dance. It was nothing formal—he didn't know any real, formal court dances—but he had seen peasants dance around a bonfire every Belletyne since he set out as a witcher, and the night always ended with the couples huddled close, rocking in slow circles. It always made his heart ache to watch.

They spun a few times in silence, Jaskier slowly curling his fingers tighter into Geralt's shirt, before Jaskier broke it. "This… this is nice," he whispered hoarsely. Geralt hummed, tucking Jaskier's head more sturdily under his chin. He met eyes with Ciri as they spun, and her smirk softened to an expression of faint upturned lips and misty eyes, crinkled at the corners, that he could only call love.

Ciri was lovely, and strong, and seemed happy to be there, but at the same time she held a tension in her. Geralt recognized it from his past self. She was on a Path, and she needed to keep going. He pulled her aside one evening, and they shared drinks on the balcony of the third floor.

"What are your plans after this?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase. Neither of them were fond of drawing out conversation.

"After helping Avallac'h… Well truthfully, I was looking for you and Yennefer." Ciri sighed, resting her forearms heavily on the banister. "I can't keep running like this forever. I need to do something about the Hunt, once and for all." Her eyes flicked up to his. Taking out the Hunt would be difficult, and would require many strong allies. Allies it would be tough to gather while constantly trying to stay one step ahead.

"You have me," Geralt said, keeping her gaze. He settled on the banister next to her, bumping their shoulders lightly together. "You'll always have me." Her mouth twitched into a smile, and they settled in a moment of comfortable silence. When they turned to go inside again, Geralt spoke up. "I'll start looking. The Wolf School is definitely behind you, and I have a bit of a following here I can contribute, but we're going to need a lot more reliable fighters than that." He patted her shoulder where she was paused at the door, and passed her to go inside. "You focus on not getting caught, I'll work on the rest."

As lovely as it was to have Ciri around, once the phalactery came back fixed, she immediately began planning her next move. She had to meet with Avallac'h to fix the curse on him, but the location he told her to meet him was in Velen, and apparently she had used her powers there and that meant the Wild Hunt was there, looking for her. She eventually decided to jump to Hindersfjall. It was a bit of a risk, as the Wild Hunt would catch her scent, but it was also the only way they could signal Avallac'h. She gave Geralt and Triss and Jaskier big hugs goodbye, and Geralt reminded her that he'd be in Novigrad if ever she needed him, and she said some really unnecessary things to Jaskier ("take care of my father, he really needs it"), and then in a flash of green, she was gone. They stood together watching the place she had been until Geralt could no longer smell the ozone smell of magic in the air, and Jaskier tugged him away.

"She'll be alright, you know," he said, not a hint of worry in his voice. "She's _your_ daughter."


	7. Chapter 7

Not a week after Ciri left, a letter from Yennefer arrived at the Chameleon. Geralt knew it was from Yennefer even before opening it, because it was delivered straight to his balcony by a magic raven that disappeared into smoke the minute he took the letter. The paper smelled of lilac and gooseberries. He thought about taking it back to bed, but the thought of that scent tangling with Jaskier's made something sour in his stomach. He broke the seal and read it on the balcony.

_Dear friend,_

_Forgive me for not asking about your health or how you have been these last years. Time is very short._

_I have important news. We must meet, and soon. Ride to Willoughby, near Vizima, and don't spare the horses - while I do eagerly await our reunion, I won't be able to wait, eagerly or otherwise, very long._

_Your dear friend,_

_Yennefer._

_P.S. I still have the unicorn._

Geralt crumpled the paper slightly, breathing out harshly and hanging his head. First time she contacted him in years, and he was already tired of her despotic tone. Of course, he recognized that it was partly his fault. He capitulated to her demands nearly every time. Not that she ever stopped when he disagreed with her either.

Geralt slid down and sat on the deck, leaning against the railing. As much as he was regretting it already, he knew he'd agree to see her this time too. He had important news, after all. He'd met Ciri. And she was in trouble.

But this time he had Jaskier. Geralt wasn't sure if it would be easier or harder to leave this time, knowing he had someone to come home to. He hoped he wasn't so weak-willed as to fall into bed with Yennefer when Jaskier was waiting for him. Part of their attraction was definitely born from the djinn, but surely he had enough control over it to stop, right? He blew out a breath, looking back at Jaskier, who was just stirring in bed. He didn't trust himself around Yennefer. He didn't want to ruin this.

"Nn…? Geralt? What're you doing out there? It's cold, come back to bed," Jaskier whined, reaching a hand out towards him. Geralt didn't move, and Jaskier sat up, pulling the blankets off the bed with him like a cape as he joined Geralt outside.

Geralt flattened his legs into a circle when Jaskier made to sit in his lap, and Jaskier nabbed the letter as Geralt's hands wrapped around him. Jaskier chewed on a fingernail as he read, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"Commanding," he muttered. "What's the bit about the unicorn?" Geralt groaned into Jaskier's shoulder. He didn't want to think about kinky sex with Yennefer when Jaskier was warm and sleep-mussed in his arms. "Never mind. Are you going to see her?" Geralt nodded into his shoulder. He'd been getting better at giving real responses, but Jaskier had also gotten better at reading him, and it was so easy to fall back on non-verbal answers with him. "But you're not excited about it." Shake of the head. Jaskier reached one hand up to pet Geralt's hair. A hint of tension drained out of Jaskier, and he slumped into Geralt's chest. "Well then. I'll go with you," he decided.

Geralt tensed, his first instinct immediate rebuttal. But Jaskier pulled him into a slow, sensual kiss, and the time he spent biting lightly at Geralt's lips, Geralt spent mulling over the idea. The world was dangerous out there, sure, but there was logically no safer place than behind Geralt's swords. And it might do him good to have a buffer from Yennefer. At the very least, Jaskier being present would probably help stop Geralt from jumping into bed with her unintentionally.

Jaskier pulled away slightly. "Hm?" he questioned, pressing more small, chaste kisses down Geralt's jawline. Geralt focused on relaxing his muscles one by one, but curled further around Jaskier. "What are you concerned about? Am I missing something? All I know of the woman is that she helped raise Ciri and she used to be your lover… is she Ciri's mother?" Jaskier raised his voice and pulled back to study Geralt's face, but Geralt couldn't tell if it was positive or negative surprise.

"No," Geralt replied gruffly, his first word of the day. If he was even considering getting Jaskier to help him, he needed to know the whole story. "I… long ago, she tried to capture a djinn that I had accidentally released. In a desperate bid to save her life, I tied her life to mine." The experience was so emotionally charged, even reflecting back he got lost in it. "We've fallen into bed on and off since, but we've never been sure how much is real and how much is the wish. It never bothered me as much as it did her." He remembered the arguments, her storming out. "Now I wonder how strong the wish's pull really is." If it's strong enough to pull him away from Jaskier.

Jaskier seemed to follow the logic. "You're worried you won't be in control around her," he concluded. "Well," he said briskly, "I wouldn't blame you regardless with that reasoning, but if you're worried about it, I'll make sure to stay close." Jaskier grinned, petting over Geralt's hair comfortingly. "Willoughby is a few days' ride at least, we should get out before midday. I'll go tell Zoltan he's in charge of my baby for a week, and if he runs her to ruin I will never forgive him." With a final bright smile, Jaskier extricated himself, stumbled his way into his clothes, and tore off downstairs.

Geralt spent the whole morning checking over his gear, which hadn't had all that much use in the past half a year or so. His swords and armor he kept fighting-ready just through habit, but he hadn't brewed any potions lately, and had to restock some fresh herbs and alchemy ingredients before feeling truly ready. Jaskier procured a horse for himself, and they left on time.

It had been a while since Geralt had been out on the road. In some ways it felt nostalgic, returning to a familiar place after having drastically changed. Some things grated on him. Outside of Novigrad, he had no title, no recognition. He didn't miss the disapproving glares or the flies in his soup or the hiked up inn prices. He didn't miss the mundanity of bandits not recognizing him at a glance and foolhardily attacking, especially now that he had Jaskier to protect.

Jaskier didn't seem terribly distraught by the road, not like Geralt thought he might be. He only knew Jaskier in comfort, and found himself surprised that he hardly complained, even when they got caught in rainfall or had to sleep outside in the dirt. Jaskier was, however, incredibly distraught with the peoples' treatment of Geralt. Geralt's heart nearly leapt from his chest the first time Jaskier tried to pick a fight with a group of drunk Temerian loyalists twice his size.

Despite all, their trip to Willoughby was fairly calm, quite unlike how they arrived there. To be precise, they didn't arrive in Willoughby. Willoughby, they learned quickly, no longer existed. In its place was an entrenched warzone, combat still ongoing.

"Damn it," Geralt swore, "we're too late." They stopped one town over from the warzone, as far as they could go without getting caught up in it. When Geralt turned, Jaskier had already dismounted and was chatting up the villagers, all of whom had boarded up their houses and peeked out only from cracks when Jaskier approached. Geralt stayed a distance away. This sort of information gathering usually went better when he couldn't be seen. Instead, he wandered down to the beach, and met an old woman fretting about her pan, stuck in an abandoned house. He spent a few minutes busting down the door and retrieving it for her, and picked up a suspiciously familiar silver monocle near the rotting corpse inside. The woman thanked him with bread, apple juice, and baked apples, which he spread out on a grassy cliff near the house to eat. Jaskier joined him shortly.

"Well," Jaskier said, muffled by the chunk of bread he shoved in his mouth first, "no black-haired woman came through this village, at least. They've had marauding bandits and fleeing soldiers and mysterious men, but no women. If she indeed fled in this direction, it wasn't through here." Geralt grunted, and they finished off the food quickly. His best shot would be to wait until the battle died down and to inspect the battlefield for clues as to where she headed, but there was no telling when the fighting would end.

"We'll head north, see if there's another path on this side of the battlefield she might've taken," he decided, helping Jaskier up. His mind was preoccupied with mapping out the area and their next steps, but Jaskier gently tilted his head down and gave him a slow kiss.

"Don't worry," he assured, hands wrapped comfortingly around Geralt's face, "we'll find her." Geralt took two deliberate breaths, nodded sharply, and led them back to the horses.

Geralt was sure it was simple luck that led him to tracks of Yennefer so quickly, but Jaskier spent a good part of the day attempting to convince him that he was simply the best tracker the world had ever seen. The crystal skull of her raven familiar was unmistakable, however, and once he'd been assured that Yennefer indeed did travel this way, picking up her trail was simple. Luckily, they were less than a day behind her, and the tracks were deep-set in the mud. Geralt led, and Jaskier kept remarkably quiet, letting Geralt focus on the tracks on the road.

Geralt pulled Jaskier aside just before the bridge into the village of White Orchard. "Jaskier, I need a favor, and you're not going to like it," he started, and Jaskier's face went through surprise and confusion and disappointment in rapid succession. "Go to the inn at White Orchard without me and ask around." Jaskier began to open his mouth, but Geralt held up a hand. "They'll be on guard the minute they see me. But just like the last village, if you approach them alone, they open up. Like it or not, I'm not trusted here. I need you. Please," he added, and he could see on Jaskier's softening features that he'd won.

"Fine, I get it, alright, I'll go ahead. But you better be right behind me!" Jaskier sing-songed, turning his horse to cross the bridge. Geralt crossed himself only a few minutes later, but snuck around the back of the inn and focused his hearing. From the sound of it, she rode through the night before, nearly knocking one man off his feet. One mentioned her turning northward, and Geralt tried to line the direction up with any obvious landmarks.

Geralt readied both horses, and was waiting in front of the inn by the time Jaskier made it out. "If she had any location in mind, it's the Nilfgaardian garrison," Jaskier remarked, swinging up onto his horse. "There's nothing else north of here of interest." Geralt agreed with the conclusion, but was deeply confused. What was Yennefer doing with Nilfgaard? All possibilities that sprang to his mind were terrifying.

Geralt entered the garrison alone, though Jaskier wasn't happy about it. The garrison officer clearly knew Yennefer, but would only trade her destination in return for Geralt killing a griffin terrorizing the area. Geralt brought the news back to Jaskier with resignation, but Jaskier was nearly bubbling with joy.

"I had been carefully curbing my expectations, but this is more than I could have possibly hoped for!" he exclaimed when Geralt asked. "A witcher's contract is the kind of inspiration bards dream about!"

"It's not as glamorous as you're thinking," Geralt sighed, spurring Roach back to the village. "A lot of examining corpses and bits of woods, distilling potions that are effectively poisons, and waiting for hours in all kinds of weather for the beast to appear. Only for an hour or less of fighting. Realistically speaking, if it takes more than an hour, I won't come out of it alive, so." He said this so nonchalantly, Jaskier spent the entire rest of the ride to the herbalist's house berating him for speaking so poorly of himself.

Jaskier accompanied him through it all—waiting on the shore as Geralt dove in the river for buckthorn, tiptoeing around the deep bloodstains in the dirt where the attacked Nilfgaardian patrol camped, huffing as he pulled himself up the mountain cliffs after Geralt to find the nest. When Geralt inspected the broken body of the griffin mother, Jaskier squeezed the back of his neck consolingly. Geralt bit his lip and leaned back into it. He had always thought he was alone in feeling pity for monsters. Even most other witchers didn't get why half the time he'd let a monster go, often foregoing the reward money, after learning that they were provoked into attacking.

But Jaskier understood. He understood what was so sad about that waste of life. This pair of griffins was attacked simply for being nearby. Maybe someday in the future they would've attacked someone who wandered too far into the forest, but this creature was killed for a crime not yet committed. And because of the Nilfgaardians' poor handling of the situation, even more life was lost when the male griffin lashed out.

The sun was setting as they returned to the inn, entering together this time. Jaskier asked for the room and meals, and amused himself by playing for the crowd, as he had been at every inn they stopped at along the way. Geralt normally sat and listened, but this time he retired shortly after dinner and brewed potions in the room, with the windows open as wide as they could go. When Jaskier joined him later, the smell was _almost_ dissipated.

"Tomorrow we hunt a griffin and find Yennefer," Jaskier mused, curled up under Geralt's arm that night. "You know, this hasn't been at all like I imagined it." He closed his eyes, yawning. "It's been better. I might've given 'traveling bard' more of a go if it'd been like this."

Geralt hummed, serenely sniffing at Jaskier's hair. "The road isn't so lonely with you. Though your lack of self-preservation gives me a heart attack at least once a day." He paused, then added more seriously, "please, _please_ stay away from the griffin tomorrow. No matter what I look like. Don't approach unless it's really, truly dead or flown away." Jaskier made a few grumbly noises, then appeared to fall asleep. Geralt hugged him a little closer. He imagined life on the Path would have been a little more bearable for him, too, if Jaskier had been there with him.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, they set out bright and early for a wide clearing next to the river to lure the griffin. Geralt found a copse of slender trees and settled Roach and Jaskier there, then went far out into the clearing to set the buckthorn lure. When he returned, Jaskier was grumbling about not being able to see well. "Stay. Here," Geralt growled at him, voice going rougher in worry. He pressed both hands down on Jaskier's shoulders as though he could nail him into the ground there. "It can't maneuver among the trees so likely won't even approach, but the second you step out you're a walking target for that thing, and it is big, angry, and soon to be hurt. A single wild slash from its talons could kill you. Don't put that on my shoulders." Geralt's worry spiked the longer he imagined it, his grip on Jaskier's shoulders getting tighter, his voice getting lower. He forcibly peeled his fingers off and turned away to fiddle with his potions, leaving Jaskier looking stunned behind him.

He jerked slightly when Jaskier's arms came around him, warm and soft. "I won't," he murmured into the back of Geralt's neck. "Gods, darling, I didn't think— But I'll not get in the way of your work, I promise." Geralt let out a low hum in reply that still sounded too close to a growl. "Anything I can do now, to help?" Jaskier asked, as Geralt worked to slowly relax his shoulders down again.

He gave a swift shake of the head. "I'm going to meditate. You can talk, if you like, but quietly. Don't want to scare it off."

Geralt settled into meditation with the quiet burble of Jaskier working through lyrics in the background, and focused his senses outwards. He felt the sun slowly rising, strengthening, and heard the wind whistling through the trees, the animals burrowing in the field. Some time later, the croaking, shrill cry of the griffin sounded far off, and the sound of large, beating wings grew closer. Geralt snapped his eyes open, waved a hand at Jaskier to quiet him, bolted a dose of Thunderbolt, and unsheathed his sword.

Not a second later, the griffin dropped heavily on the lure, screeching in surprise to find it was not the rotting corpse that it had smelled. Geralt raced out swinging, managing a slash to its backside before it could even turn. He then quickly blocked with Quen, anticipating the griffin's quick turnaround and strike, and the second the talons glanced away, he stepped in for another slash across the griffin's chest. The griffin shrieked in pain, the sound more grating at such a close distance, but Geralt grit his teeth and kept dancing around it, staying just ahead of the griffin's talons and darting his eyes about constantly for openings to strike. They faced off for what must have been half an hour, Geralt avoiding all but one glancing blow, and taking a couple hard tumbles while dodging, before the griffin tried to take to the skies again. Geralt, thinking fast, made the sign for Aard, and the strong blow crippled the griffin's already weakened wings. It plummeted to the ground, and Geralt ran up for the finishing blow, stabbing his sword deep into its chest. He watched it bleed out, catching his breath, before removing his sword and stumbling back a little. When he looked up, Jaskier was already approaching with Roach.

He took the water skin held out to him without a word, then passed it back. Jaskier was being unnaturally quiet. Geralt tilted his head at him slightly, and Jaskier finally said, slowly and quietly, "that was… incredible. I've never seen anything like it. I- I knew you were good with your swords, but… I could hardly even follow that battle." The longer he talked, the more Jaskier's energy came back. "Are you always slowing yourself down for the rest of us? I've never seen you move that fast. An entire squadron of Nilfgaardian soldiers would have trouble taking out one of those, even when sneaking up on it, but you took it down in single combat without even a scratch! Wait, you didn't get hurt, did you? It was so fast, I couldn't see." Jaskier stepped into Geralt's space abruptly, fingers wandering all over his armor searching for injury.

Geralt carefully broke Jaskier's hold and grabbed both his flailing arms, pressing them lightly together. Jaskier stilled and met his gaze, and Geralt sunk mindlessly into his blue, blue eyes for a moment before responding. "I'm fine. Step back, I need to take the head as proof."

Jaskier wordlessly backed away, and Geralt sawed off the griffin's head with his hunting knife and tied it onto his saddle with rope, hands moving instinctively. He took a few extra moments to clean his sword and pack up his potions, then moved to hop into the saddle, but was stopped by the lightest touch to his face. Jaskier, he realized, had been staring at him the whole time. "What?" he asked gruffly, internally berating himself for being unable to sound nicer.

Jaskier didn't seem to mind. "Your eyes…" Geralt froze. Of course. He'd never taken a potion in front of Jaskier before. He'd never needed to. Distantly he wondered if _this_ , not the crime lord thing, would be the end. "They've gone entirely black," Jaskier finished, as if this was a revelation.

Geralt turned his face away, shaking off Jaskier's hand. "Hm," he grunted, "potions." He hopped into the saddle and directed Roach back towards town. She set off on a walk, plenty slow for Jaskier to catch up, but of course Jaskier was sent into a tizzy, running to his own horse, getting on, and directing it after Geralt.

"Geralt! Oh, that wasn't what I meant," he mumbled, edging his horse on faster to catch up. "Geralt, I didn't mean anything by it, it's just new! You didn't warn me your eyes changed color sometimes. Most people's don't, you know. I was surprised, that's all," he whined, his horse finally falling into step alongside Roach. Geralt's eyes flicked back to read Jaskier's face—pouting, but with real concern shining in his eyes—before focusing on the road again. He was used to people being disgusted with his eyes, and while most of him trusted Jaskier at this point not to react that way, occasionally those old insecurities bubbled to the surface.

They rode most of the way back to the Nilfgaardian garrison in silence, but when they could see it coming up in the distance, Geralt finally found his words. "It's not… disgusting?"

Thankfully, Jaskier picked up the conversation right where they left off. "Of course not! Takes some time getting used to maybe, but I'm more curious than anything. Why does it affect your eyes that way?"

"Hm, witcher potions are basically poisons," Geralt explained, ignoring Jaskier's gasp of outrage. "Our mutations allow us to process them, and gain benefits from them, but it still takes our bodies a while to purge the toxins. Thus, the black eyes and veins."

"But doesn't it _hurt?_ " Jaskier questioned, voice still a little high and pitchy from concern.

Geralt's lips stretched into a very thin smile. He'd never really thought about it, and no one else had ever pointed that out. "Now that you mention it, yeah, a bit. Tastes like shit, too. But that little boost in strength is often the line between living and dying for a witcher. Never really questioned it." As they approached the garrison, Geralt waved Jaskier back and dismounted, leaving Roach with him. He took the griffin head and his swords, just in case, and reported to the commander.

When he returned to Jaskier, he was in a much fouler mood. "She's in Vizima," he bit out, smoothly mounting Roach and turning her back along the road in the same motion. Jaskier's horse followed her lead as she began to trot.

Jaskier let out a frustrated huff. "And he couldn't have said so sooner? That's so close!" Geralt snorted lightly. He'd thought the same thing. Somehow, Jaskier always knew what response would make Geralt feel better. He wished he had the words to say so.

They rode straight on from the garrison towards Vizima, but Geralt stopped suddenly not halfway there. "Geralt?" Jaskier asked hesitantly. "What's wrong, darling?"

Geralt scented the air and closed his eyes, honing his senses. He could hear the drum of numerous hoof beats coming towards them, and very faintly… lilac and gooseberries. Getting closer. "She's coming," he said simply, leading Roach to the side of the road.

"Coming? What do you mean she's coming?" Jaskier continued complaining, but Geralt paid little mind.

"Yen!" he called out, as the horses came into view. They pulled perfectly to a stop in front of them, and the Nilfgaardian soldiers moved their horses out of the way so Yennefer could pull forward.

She was just as beautiful as he remembered. It had been years, but she was entirely unchanged. Her travel gear was tightly fitted black and white, with thigh high boots, and her violet eyes were as striking as the first time he saw them. He could feel the pull between them, like a static charge, and couldn't help but smile a little. She seemed equally unable to resist. "What are you doing here?" he asked, without really thinking about it.

"I received a report," she said, speaking every word carefully, "about a witcher in White Orchard. I knew it was you. Looking for me." Her voice curled slightly on the last words, as though hinting at their more intimate relationship. That snapped him out of it. Jaskier. Jaskier was there.

He cleared his throat, looking away. Somehow looking at Yen made it harder to think. He looked to Jaskier instead, who was now staring at them, part in confusion and part in comprehension. "Jaskier, this is Yennefer." Jaskier dipped his head politely at her. "Yen, Jaskier." Yennefer stared back at him, as though she hadn't seen him there at all. Geralt couldn't really blame her. He'd gotten just as derailed from her presence. One of the soldiers' horses shuffled, pawing at the ground. "Mind explaining the Nilfgaardian escort?"

Yen's eyes snapped back to him. "I will, in Vizima. There's someone waiting to see you. Someone who doesn't like to be kept waiting." Her tone was hinting, but she didn't keep them in suspense long. "Emperor Emhyr var Emries. Or to those on more intimate terms with him, the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes."

Jaskier's eyes were wide as saucers, and mouth opening and closing like a fish, but Geralt just gave him a curt shake of the head and replied directly, "doubt I number among that group. Far as I remember, last time we saw each other, he wanted to kill me."

"Well, now he wishes to make you an offer," Yennefer said, quieter. Geralt scoffed. "Regardless, let's be off. I'd like to be back behind some thick city walls. As soon as possible." She glanced at Jaskier, but Geralt cut off her sure to be snide comment.

"He's coming."

She met his eyes in a hard stare, and he tried not to get lost in them. After a breathless moment, she rolled her eyes. "Fine, but let's hurry."

Geralt and Jaskier fell into step behind Yennefer's horse, and were then bracketed in front and behind by the Nilfgaardian guards. The tense situation ensured that there was not a peep out of anyone for the duration of the ride back to the city. Yennefer refused to give any additional information, and Geralt didn't feel comfortable filling Jaskier in on what had happened until they had a little more privacy. Jaskier seemed calm on the outside, but Geralt could see how tense and uncomfortable he was by the way he chewed his bottom lip and fiddled with his fingers. He wished he could reach over and give him comfort, but that was even worse than attempting conversation in this situation.

The situation was actually getting more and more complicated. All Geralt wanted was a moment with Yennefer away from the guards, but he doubted he'd get that before the hearing with the Emperor. And who knew what would happen to Jaskier once they reached the palace. For all Geralt knew, Jaskier wouldn't even be let inside. He'd have to be insistent.

As they gates loomed over them, Yennefer blew out a quiet sigh of relief, Jaskier's fidgeting got worse, and Geralt, unable to stand the tension, hissed out, "you're really making this more complicated than it has to be, Yen," to which she looked back at him in surprise and confusion, before urging her horse forwards and through the gates.

"What are you talking about?" she hissed back, once the gates had boomed closed behind them. "What do you even know about the situation here?"

He didn't know about the Emperor's situation, but his own business was simple. He was here to give Yennefer the news about Ciri and go home. If only she'd let him.

There was a slight issue at the gates to the palace when Geralt insisted on Jaskier accompanying him—Yennefer stared at him, bewildered, while they waited for the guards to send for permission to admit him—but they were finally led inside, and let into a bedroom. Rather, the servants attempted to drop Jaskier off at one room and continue to another for Geralt, but Geralt refused to move a step without him. Yennefer informed them that Geralt would meet with the Emperor first thing the next morning, and went off to a separate room.

Finally left entirely alone, Jaskier turned to him at once. "What. Is going on." Jaskier's voice started very low, but ended in a squeak. "You know the Emperor?"

Geralt sighed, beginning the long process of getting out of his armor. "It's a long story."

"Oh, of _course_ it is," Jaskier sighed dramatically, nevertheless starting to undress for bed himself. "Well at least catch me up on the short version, I'm dying to know what's happening. Oh, and," he said as an afterthought, "I think I get it, sort of. Why you were worried about coming, that is," he added, when Geralt gave him a clearly confused look. "There is some weird tension between you and her. If you hadn't said it was magic, I would've assumed you just weren't over each other, but… Yeah, it's pretty weird."

Geralt wondered what he and Yennefer looked like from a third person perspective. His wolf school brothers had always disapproved of her, but now that he thought on it, he wasn't sure if it was because they disliked her as a person or thought she wasn't good for him. At the time, he never gave their concerns much thought. He set his armor on the floor and got out his cloths and oils, beginning maintenance as he reorganized his thoughts. "First off, Emhyr is Ciri's father," he listed out loud, but had to stop organizing the information abruptly when Jaskier interrupted.

"He's _what?_ "

"Her father. By birth," he specified. "She's mine by the law of surprise." Jaskier was still gawking at him, so Geralt threw a cloth at his face to snap him out of it. He had finished undressing for bed, and now approached the basin of water provided, cursorily wiping himself down.

"Right," Geralt continued, moving on. "A number of years ago, some allies and I fought at Stygga Castle to free Yennefer and find Ciri. The Emperor arrived just after the battle, with some messed up plan to marry Ciri and have a powerful child? I don't know, it didn't make a lot of sense. But he told me and Yennefer to commit suicide, and at the time we didn't have much choice, so we intended to do just that. Only Ciri came to get us soon after, saying the Emperor and his men had left, just like that, no explanation." Geralt set his armor aside and sighed, leaning back as Jaskier came up behind him and worked the tangles out of his hair. "That's the last time I saw him. I have no idea what he'd want from me."

"So… her father wanted to have a baby with her. Great. Glad he walked that one back," Jaskier deadpanned, shaking his head disbelievingly. "And you're meeting him tomorrow?" Geralt hummed, closing his eyes and basking in the feeling of Jaskier's fingers.

"If only Yen would just let me say my bit we could get out of here…" Geralt grumbled. Jaskier huffed a laugh into his hair, peppering kisses into it.

"Come on then, dear wolf," he urged, tugging lightly at the ends of Geralt's hair, "let's get to bed. Somehow I doubt they'll let us sleep in tomorrow, and we've had quite an eventful day."


	9. Chapter 9

A gaggle of maids woke them up the next morning with breakfast in the room, and then insisted on bathing Geralt, but Jaskier calmly and gently persuaded them to leave the task to him. Geralt settled in the bath with a groan. It was unusual to do this in the early morning, but the motions were familiar to them both by now. Baths were one of the many ways Jaskier insisted on showing his affection for Geralt, and Geralt… was weak, and never denied him.

The bath was quiet and peaceful. Jaskier, generally unable and unwilling to stay silent for long, hummed and sang under his breath as he carefully rubbed Geralt down with a lightly scented soap. Geralt felt both guilty and grateful for all the concessions Jaskier had to make for him. Jaskier of course claimed he didn't mind that he couldn't wear his more strongly scented colognes anymore, but Geralt still felt bad. And he had made sure to say that it's not anything that he couldn't stand (he withstood much worse scents all the time, really), but Jaskier insisted that if Geralt wasn't comfortable, he wouldn't be, and made Geralt go through every scented thing he owned to determine what was acceptable. And it did, admittedly, make things easier.

A knock at the door preceded the entry of the chamberlain and a manservant. The chamberlain approached and shooed Jaskier away from the bath as he inspected Geralt's cleanliness. "It will suffice," he sniffed. Geralt watched as Jaskier face flew from surprise into upset, and then the emotion was visibly swallowed down. The chamberlain didn't seem to notice. The servant then approached, holding out a towel for Geralt to step into. Geralt accepted the towel with an eye roll towards Jaskier, which slightly improved his mood.

He then watched Jaskier's face plunge right into shocked disbelief as he snarked, "think Emhyr cares if I'm clean?"

The chamberlain turned to him, distain written clearly on his face, though it was difficult to say if it was because of that comment or just a general distain for Geralt. "The gentleman will refer to His Imperial Majesty by his full title or not at all." He then sniffed and walked away. "The gentleman will be seated on the bergère." Geralt looked to Jaskier in confusion, and Jaskier pointed him frantically to an entirely too ostentatious wooden chair.

Geralt sat down in a huff. The servant was then instructed to shave Geralt—something he didn't generally oppose on principle, but would this time just to be contrary—but Jaskier interrupted.

"But— why would you shave him? He looks so distinguished with a beard! Don't dismantle all my hard work! It takes effort to keep it that soft!" The chamberlain looked startled, as if he'd forgotten Jaskier was in the room. The servant paused with his shaving knife out, suddenly uncertain whether or not to continue. Geralt smirked. That was a better reaction than he'd have gotten with anything he could've said.

The chamberlain pulled himself together quickly, and cleared his throat. "It does add to his dignity. Yet it also detracts from his elegance. In Nilfgaard we consider beards hard on the eyes." His eyes narrowed in challenge at Jaskier.

Jaskier stamped his foot, crossed his arms, and sniffed haughtily, but said no more. The shaver got to work. Not a moment later, a self-introduced General Morvran Voorhis came demanding answers to his questions. At first, he suggested Jaskier be made to wait elsewhere, but Geralt repeated what he had said several times now at the palace—wherever Jaskier goes, he goes—and the general dropped the subject.

His questions were mainly about recent history. While answering, Geralt thought grimly that Jaskier was suddenly getting a lot of ugly details of his past, but while Jaskier looked serious and thoughtful, he didn't seem disgusted with any of Geralt's decisions, even the ones that ended in unfortunate deaths. Beard finally shaven, the general appeared to run out of questions, and promptly left.

Jaskier helped Geralt into the clothing the chamberlain had picked out for his audience, and whispered so quietly the chamberlain couldn't possibly hear, "I know you did the best you could in the circumstances. I'm so proud of you, even if you can't be proud of yourself. I only wish I could be of more help to you." He smiled wanly. "Even this time, I'm here with you but can't join you." Jaskier adjusted Geralt's collar a final time and stepped back. "Good luck."

The audience was awful. Geralt flatly refused to bow, and then had to awkwardly sidestep the fact that he knew where Ciri was already when the Emperor commanded his help in finding her. When he was finally let go, he was berated for his conduct the whole way back through the halls by the chamberlain. The chamberlain led him past the room they'd left Jaskier in without stopping, and Geralt thanked his memory and senses that he knew to stop and pick him up before going further. Jaskier walked close by his side, so close they brushed shoulders almost every step. It was almost as comforting as holding hands would have been, which was surely the point.

The chamberlain refused to return his gear until he went to talked to Yennefer, which suited Geralt just fine. Unexpectedly, the first room they entered only held an older man, dictating to a scribe. Geralt led Jaskier past into the next room, where they found Yennefer. "Geralt! That tunic—you look positively smashing." She was as beautiful and fragrant as ever, and for a moment or two Geralt lost his head again.

"Ugh, dying to take it off," he replied without thinking. Then her eyes darted to Jaskier, and Geralt remembered himself. Jaskier gave a dramatic formal bow and reintroduced himself.

"I know of you, but I gather you know little of me. Julian Alfred Pankratz, otherwise known as the bard Jaskier." Jaskier met Yennefer's eyes in challenge, before adding, "I'm Geralt's lover." Geralt inhaled sharply, turning to Yennefer and instinctively pulling Jaskier slightly behind him.

Yennefer looked shocked for a few moments, before the expression got darker by degrees and ended somewhere around murderous. "Not only do you cheat on me not once, but twice, you then have the gall to wave it in my face?" she cried, voice escalating.

"Yen—" Geralt tried to cut in, but she wouldn't have it.

"And a man! Since when did you have this little sidepiece?" Her fists clenched and unclenched, and she began to pace. Neither were good signs, and Geralt carefully backed up a few steps, keeping Jaskier behind him. "I wasn't even going to mention the bit where you slept with my _best friend_ , but well, you started it—" Yennefer's fingers were crackling with magic, and her steps picked up.

"Jaskier, wait in—" Geralt didn't have time to finish as Yennefer's fingers shot towards them, and they found themselves freefalling into the courtyard fountain. Geralt, ever the quick thinker, rolled them in midair to protect Jaskier from the fall. The pool was shallow, and his back and head slapped hard against the bottom, making him grunt in pain. When he surfaced, he was a little dizzy, and nearly seeing red. It was one thing to throw him around—he could take it. It was an entirely different thing to play rough with Jaskier, a mere human. That fall could have killed him! He barely registered Jaskier fretting over him and getting mad on his behalf before storming back into the room, now dripping wet and collecting stares.

"Yen!" he bellowed, stepping right into her space and grabbing her wrists. "I don't care how angry you are, don't you dare _ever_ put him in harm's way again! That fall could have killed him!"

"Oh come off it," she shot back, just as heated, "he's fine, isn't he? Had his white knight to catch him." She tore her hands back, scoffing. "Anyways, _he's_ the one who—"

"Who what? What has he done to you? Stated the very true fact that he and I are in a relationship? Don't take that out on him, it's me you're really mad at."

"And so what? You decided to rub it in my face, drag him along to an urgent meeting with me?"

"N— _he_ offered to come along for _me,_ for moral support, because I _know_ how we get when we meet up, and I'm in a _committed relationship_ now and can't _flirt_ with you anymore!"

"Oh, a _committed relationship,_ like we were in a _committed relationship_ when you decided to go off and cheat—"

" ** _Enough!_** "

Geralt and Yennefer both froze, turning slowly to the doorway where Jaskier stood, framed by the faces of various nobles and servants that had heard the argument from the courtyard and come to spectate. Once they realized they'd been seen, they began to disperse.

Geralt was surprised. He knew Jaskier was a good singer, but he'd never heard him project his voice like that.

"Is this really the time?" Jaskier sighed, shaking his head. He approached, touching Geralt lightly on the elbow. "You're not hurt?" Geralt shook his head mutely. He was sore, sure, but nothing serious. "Geralt, do you remember why we came?" Of course he did. It was for—

Ciri.

He looked around and listened to make sure no one else was within hearing distance, then turned to Yennefer. "Would've been easier to tell you this somewhere else, but… I ran into Ciri recently."

"You _what?_ " Yennefer gasped. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Geralt rolled his eyes. It was a rhetorical question. "Where? Is she alright? Do you know where she is now?"

"Just… calm down alright?" Geralt sighed, flopping into a nearby chair. Jaskier followed, and perched himself on the desk to Geralt's right. "She came to Novigrad, fleeing the Wild Hunt and looking for Avellac'h, who she's traveling with. I helped get her in touch with Triss, who fixed a magic item for her that would help with a curse that was afflicting Avellac'h. She left for Hindersfjall, by portal, not two weeks ago. Doubt she's still there though. And I heard straight from her about her adventures on Ard Skellige and in Velen, so there's not much point following up on those leads."

"You let her go alone?" Yennefer pressed, worry overtaking her previous anger at Geralt.

"Can't leave Novigrad that long," Geralt shrugged. Yennefer's eyebrows hiked. "I'm settled there, now." A hand wandered to Jaskier's ankle where it was pressing against his knee, and he rubbed it lightly. Yennefer's eyes tracked the movement, and narrowed in distaste. "She knows I'll be there, in case she comes back. Otherwise, Hindersfjall is your best bet for any newer information. They're moving quickly though, trying to outpace the Wild Hunt. Wouldn't bet on them still being there."

"And you made no plans to meet with her later?"

Geralt shook his head. "She knows where to find me if she needs me. Other than that, she can take care of herself. She's… really grown up, Yen," he added softly. Jaskier caught his eye and smiled, as though also remembering her visit.

Yennefer looked wistful, then her face fell into confusion. "What are you doing in Novigrad, anyway? That's the last place anyone would expect you to settle. I didn't even think to look."

Geralt bit his cheek to avoid making an obvious grimace. "Jaskier owns property there," he answered vaguely. "I live with him, and work in the area."

"The Chameleon," Jaskier added. "My dream cabaret. It's where Ciri knows to drop by, if she visits. If you don't catch up with her in Skellige, drop by." It was a generous offer, to the ex of his lover who just dropped them into a fountain.

Geralt stood, unnecessarily helping Jaskier off the table. "Well, that's it then. Need to head back." He began to lead them out of the room, but stopped and turned back at the same moment Yennefer called out to him.

"Actually—"

"Wait, what—"

They both stopped, and Geralt gestured for Yennefer to go first.

"What are you going to tell Emhyr?"

Geralt shrugged. "Nothing, for now. It's true enough that I don't know where she is right now, and if my luck's good I'll avoid reporting until it doesn't matter anymore. I don't owe him anything." Jaskier nodded along proudly. "Anyway, can you portal us back?"

Yennefer's eyes bugged. "You _want_ to portal back?"

Geralt grimaced obviously this time. "Not exactly, but I wasn't lying when I said it's not good for us to be away from Novigrad too long. Besides, if Ciri does come back, I don't want to miss her." Geralt was pretty sure she wouldn't be back so quickly, but Yennefer didn't know that. She agreed, still mystified, and followed them out.

While passing by the first room again, Geralt had a double take as he realized he knew the nobleman dictating there. "Ambassador var Attre?"

The ambassador paused in his dictation, and smiled when he saw Geralt. "Ah, Geralt! And Master Jaskier, so good to see you. How are my girls doing in their lessons?" Jaskier was tutoring var Attre's twins in… something. Rhetoric? Either way, they had a bland but pleasant interaction while Geralt fetched his clothes back from the chamberlain, leaving him with the sopping wet borrowed outfit with absolutely no remorse. Jaskier skillfully extracted them from their conversation with the ambassador, and they continued to the stables.

"You know the ambassador," Yennefer commented.

"Well of course," Jaskier replied. "We all live in Novigrad, and attend some of the same parties. Naturally we're acquainted." He seemed to be regaining his pep, after having been mainly reticent and respectful during their stay in the palace, and Geralt smiled slightly. He once again quashed the urge to reach for Jaskier's hand.

The two kept up a slightly strained conversation until they reached the stables, but at least Yennefer refrained from snapping at Jaskier. It gave Geralt hope that someday, far in the future, they might even be able to converse without jabbing at one another. Geralt and Jaskier readied the horses, then Yennefer cast the portal. Jaskier went through first, and just before he followed, Geralt turned back. "I do still care about you, you know," he called back, over the whooshing vortex of the portal. "Take care of yourself. And come visit sometime." With that, he grit his teeth and stepped through the portal, leading Roach after him.

That evening, back at the Chameleon, Jaskier insisted on giving Geralt another, much more relaxed bath.

"It's strange," Jaskier began narrating the bath as usual, "doesn't even feel like we were in Vizima just this morning, so much has happened." He paused, running his fingers along Geralt's jaw. "A shame they shaved it, I quite liked you with a beard."

Geralt hummed. "I'll grow it out again." Jaskier smiled weakly, clearly distracted. Geralt waited for a minute, kissing Jaskier's fingers and waiting for him to tell him what was wrong. When a full minute had passed, he asked, "Jaskier? What is it?"

Jaskier distractedly kissed his forehead. "You were much more involved in the war than I thought you were. It's not bad," he added hurriedly, feeling Geralt tense, "just… unexpected. I didn't think our pasts would have any influence on our relationship… Did you…" Jaskier took a sharp inhale. "No, nevermind."

Geralt frowned. It wasn't like Jaskier to second guess his words like that. Still, he wasn't one to push for information.

Jaskier pulled himself together slightly, nuzzling Geralt's wet hair. "I have something to tell you… but I'm not quite ready yet. Wait for me?"

"Always," Geralt assured.


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days, Geralt wracked his head for ideas about people he could ask to come to Ciri's aid. The first few were obvious—Vesemir, his wolf school mentor, Crach an Craite, an old friend and protector of Ciri, and the druid Mousesack, Ciri's girlhood mentor. After that it became harder. Lambert and Eskel, the other wolf school witchers, were obvious allies, but it would be difficult to track down witchers on the Path. He also thought of Yarpen Zigrin, Iorveth, and Vernon Roche, all past allies, if not friends, but they were in similarly unknown locations. He had just got around to deciding to write to Nenneke, the head priestess of Ellander's Temple of Melitele (what help she could provide, he wasn't sure, but at least he knew where she was), when Jaskier came and settled on his shoulders.

"What's the matter, dearest?"

Geralt leaned back, wrapping Jaskier's arms more firmly around himself. "Lot of people moved during the wars. Don't know how to get in contact with them."

Jaskier hummed lightly. "Well, you know plenty of people around Novigrad, some of whom I'm sure owe you favors. You're a good person—no, you are," he added when Geralt grumbled. "You've helped a lot of people. Even if you don't feel that way, there are more people out there than you think that feel indebted to you. Humans, non-humans… monsters, even." He said it in a revelatory tone that Geralt was nearly positive he was faking.

That was an idea though. Geralt had never even considered asking monsters for help. Even though he fought for them many times, and even, memorably, _with_ one occasionally. If only Regis was still around.

"Just give it a try, hm?" Jaskier continued while Geralt pondered. "Even if it doesn't work out, it's best to try all avenues. It's for Ciri, after all. Come on, I'll help too."

Jaskier promised to send some letters and ask his contacts in Novigrad—Dudu, Irina, Priscilla, Lady Vegelbud, and so forth—for any help or contacts they could provide. Meanwhile, Geralt worked up the courage to do his own groveling. He went first to Triss, who of course agreed to help, and also committed to convincing the rest of the mage community to help out. It was getting progressively more dangerous for mages in Novigrad, but Geralt and Triss were already arranging a way out for them, and Triss felt confident that most wouldn't mind trading a favor for guaranteed passage to freedom.

With Triss out of the way, Geralt returned to the Chameleon for a breather, and chatted up Zoltan, who was managing the place while everyone was out. "What's the long face for?" he asked cheerfully, slapping Geralt on the back as he sat down.

Geralt hummed through his first swallow of ale, then answered, "looking for allies to help Ciri fight the Wild Hunt. Hard going."

"The Wild Hunt, ye say?" Zoltan perked up, interested. "Always thought those wraiths were legend." Geralt hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing, but Zoltan continued without needing an answer. "Well, if you say they exist, I've no reason to doubt you. Ye know all of us here will fight for you, if you command." Geralt hadn't, actually—sure, he'd thought about asking, but wasn't at all sure his gang would be willing to fight a battle that almost certainly wasn't going to take place in Novigrad. Still, if Zoltan was saying so, it was probably true. "Ye have anyone else in mind?"

Geralt looked at Zoltan, and purely because he was a dwarf, though of Yarpen. "Mm. Old friend, Yarpen Zigrin, but I don't know where he's got to nowadays."

"Yarpen Zigrin? The adventurer? Well you're in luck then. Lost his crew in the second war, down to the last dwarf, and went back to Mahakam to recruit more. I'll send 'em a letter."

Geralt quirked his lips in a smile. Of all the lucky coincidences. He patted Zoltan on the shoulder and stood. "Mention it's for Ciri. Counting on you."

Invigorated by the success, Geralt next went to see Salma. Surprisingly, she was eager to help, and vowed to go out and try to get in touch with other monsters that owe Geralt life debts. "Anything to repay you," she told him. "You picked me up when I had already given up on life. Every hour more I have is thanks to you." Her words were touching—Geralt had no idea he'd had such an impact on her. He bade her to be careful, and let her go.

Sarah the godling was slightly harder to convince, being an entirely peace-loving creature, but with Corinne Tilly's assistance, Geralt was able to secure her help as well. He asked her to focus on bartering with trolls—generally simple creatures, easy to sway, and ones that Geralt dealt with frequently during his time on the Path. Additionally, a single troll had the approximate strength of one self-operated trebuchet. They would be a valuable asset, if they could be persuaded.

The monsters that could be recruited would be told to gather in the woods south of Novigrad. Though somewhat skeptical that they would come together, Geralt nonetheless felt better at least trying.

Geralt turned his focus to considering asking for help from the Big Five around when their next meeting was scheduled. When he showed up early to Dijkstra's place, though, he soon realized that in his time away he'd missed a lot.

"Where were you last week?" Dijkstra bit out as soon as he'd arrived. "Off on holiday?" The room was in more chaos that Geralt had ever seen it.

"Sudden business. What happened?" Geralt asked, cutting to the chase.

Dijkstra sighed, slapping down the papers he was holding and leaning back further in his very plush desk chair. "Not sure yet, to be honest." Geralt snorted out a surprised laugh at the thought of Dijkstra being honest. "Junior's acting up. More than usual," he added when Geralt started to dismiss it.

"Doing what?"

"His men have started twice as many street fights as normal, and not just in your territory—in all of ours. They hang about in places they oughtn't be, snooping about for information they oughtn't have. It's not much yet, sure, but it's odd. Leads to trouble. And," he added, making eye contact with Geralt meaningfully, "he missed the meeting last week too."

Geralt huffed. "I was called away by Yennefer. Completely unrelated," he explained begrudgingly. Dijkstra winced at the mention of the sorceress for whose sake his ankle was broken, and Geralt smirked.

Not long after, the meeting began in full, and this time as well, Whoreson Junior was conspicuously absent. Geralt hadn't heard of any damages to his territory while he was away, but the others shared their grievances—Whoreson's men picking fights, snooping around warehouses, around headquarters, a couple break-ins that might've been connected but couldn't be linked back to Junior. Putting it all together, it definitely looked suspicious. But they were all in agreement on one point—Junior wasn't smart enough to plan things out to this degree on his own. He must be working with someone. With no clues as to who, the most they could agree on was to increase surveillance on Whoreson's men. 

After the meeting, Geralt took care to keep more informed on the situation on the streets of Novigrad. Unexpectedly, though, his men weren't reporting any influx in skirmishes with Whoreson's men. In fact, they seem to have nearly disappeared from his territory completely. Nevertheless, he made sure everyone kept up diligent surveillance throughout his territory, and asked for more frequent reports of activity.

In the meantime, he continued searching for allies for Ciri. When he swung by Éibhear's shop to get his swords repaired, he asked on a whim if Éibhear would outfit the army. The elf jumped on the idea with so much excitement it startled Geralt. He was nearly in tears. Though he would continue taking regular jobs, Éibhear promised all the free time he had to preparing weapons, pro-bono, for Geralt to use in defense of Ciri. When asked why he would go so far, he simply answered: "thanks to you, I can freely devote myself to the work I love. Without your help, I'd be selling dumplings for a living, and miserable for it."

Geralt returned to the Chameleon in a bemused daze that evening. He had had more luck than he'd ever imagined asking people for help with Ciri. It wasn't an easy task, going up against the Wild Hunt. But not a single person he had asked so far balked at the task, or outright refused to help. Even those who couldn't commit fighting strength offered money, or connections, or some other service. Geralt had never in his life on the Path imagined he would one day get such a warm reception from the people around him.

A few days later, Geralt was called downstairs late at night. "Geralt! It's one of your friends again!" Geralt rushed down, barely remembering to grab his swords. "Friends" was what Jaskier called any business visitors Geralt got, and he always tried to keep them as far away from Jaskier as he possibly could. This time, he was surprised to find Dijkstra, lounging comfortably in the booth reserved for Geralt. A number of his men were also there, milling about the bar. Geralt flicked his eyes worriedly to Jaskier, who seemed completely unperturbed, but…

Geralt slid onto the other side of the booth. "You never come in person," he complained, alert, but eyes not leaving Jaskier. He seemed to be picking up drinks, and… coming closer. Shit.

"This isn't business I can leave with a messenger," Dijkstra replied, following Geralt's gaze. Jaskier arrived at the table shortly after and delivered them drinks. He blinked in surprise at the intense focus with which they both stared at him, but then shook it off, gave Geralt a peck on the cheek, and turned to leave. Geralt took a breath in to sigh in relief, but Dijkstra spoke up before Jaskier was out of earshot.

"Nice piece you got there. He your mob wife? Not all of us are so lucky—"

Geralt slammed his fist on the table and half-vaulted over it to grab the man by the collar, but it was too late. "You—"

Jaskier spun around, and his mouth dropped open at the sight. "Geralt!" he cried, rushing back and pulling Geralt away from Dijkstra. "Geralt, it's okay, darling, I've been called worse."

Geralt's head spun. "You've—" If Geralt ever learned the names of the people who'd insulted Jaskier, he'd beat them unconscious. But more importantly, Jaskier didn't seem at all surprised to be called a 'mob wife.' Geralt had never before felt so unhinged. He was shaking, his head whirling with thoughts he couldn't catch, and everything looked too sharp and sounded too loud and felt too much. Dijkstra was staring at him from across the table, a smirk on his face. Jaskier loomed above him, concerned, but finally said some words to Dijkstra that Geralt didn't catch and dragged him upstairs to the meeting room.

It was strange to see Jaskier in that room. He looked small and young, a bright spot of color swallowed up by the darkly upholstered armchair he sat in. Jaskier knew. Jaskier knew and he'd maybe known for a while but now Geralt knew he knew and was it all over now what if Jaskier didn't want him anymore—

It took a moment to realize Jaskier was talking to him. "—ralt? Geralt, darling, are you alright? Look at me." He tried for a few seconds to make sound before he rustled up a grunt. His eyes flicked hazily back and forth over Jaskier a few times before settling on him. One hand settled ever-so-lightly on his, and even that nearly made him flinch away, but instead he reached out and grabbed it, maybe a touch too hard. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? Talk to me." Geralt would miss his voice, the little endearments he called him. He breathed in deep. He'd miss Jaskier's scent, the very light aroma of his bergamot-lavender soap and the fresh, sunny scent of his happiness. He'd miss the way Jaskier gesticulated when he got excited, and the way he always made Geralt laugh in bed.

Geralt was aware that he was spiraling, but couldn't do anything to stop it. If he hadn't been purged of tears by the mutagens, he was sure he'd be crying. _I might still_ , he thought, feeling his eyes itch.

He was only aware of Jaskier inching closer when he fell completely forward into Geralt's lap. Geralt's arms went around him instinctively, holding him steady. "My darling," Jaskier cooed, brushing the hair from Geralt's eyes. Geralt stared up at him, trying to memorize every detail. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I–" Geralt's voice came out low and raspy. He cycled through things he wanted to say. _Don't leave me_ , but he wouldn't pressure Jaskier like that. _I'll miss you_ , that's a little sudden. "I love you," he settled on, because it was true. Jaskier smiled at him, petting his face.

"I love you too darling, but that's not what this is about, is it?"

Geralt wished Jaskier would just get on with it, but if he wanted to drag the words out of Geralt, he'd do his best to give him that. "You're leaving," he rasped, breaking eye contact. He focused instead on Jaskier's chest, and the slow rises and falls of his breathing.

"And why am I leaving?"

"I… I'm a crime lord."

"Yes."

"And you're a bard."

"Also true."

"I'm… dangerous. For you."

"Utterly and entirely false. I'm safer with you than I've ever been on my own," Jaskier assured. "And anyway," he went on, "shouldn't it be my decision whether or not to stay?"

Geralt blinked. That sounded like… "You want to stay?"

Jaskier blinked back, surprised. "Of course I do! Why would you ever think I wanted to leave?"

"But I'm… not good for you," Geralt protested, using the same words he'd told himself every day since they first met.

Jaskier's face showed a flash of anger, which quickly faded into deep sadness. His eyes teared up. "Geralt… you're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said sincerely, holding Geralt's face between his palms. "I've never wanted anything more than I want you."

They held each other close in silence for a moment, and Geralt came to a realization: Jaskier wanted to stay. He cleared his throat, head still nuzzled into Jaskier's shoulder. "How long have you known?"

Jaskier scoffed. "About your job? Near the beginning. I noticed you were trying not to bring up the details around me, so I played along, but I hadn't realized you really thought you were hiding it."

That was a little embarrassing. "You're… so bright. I don't want to taint you," Geralt tried to explain.

Jaskier let out a puff of air. "I'm flattered, but… You're not my first experience with the underworld, darling. I'm already tainted." Jaskier pushed Geralt back and met his eyes again, hesitantly. "I have something to tell you. I was hoping to wait a little longer, but I think you need it now. But… Go settle things with your colleague first? And I'll organize my thoughts. Then we'll talk, okay?"

Geralt had completely forgotten about Dijkstra. He spent a few more long minutes wringing assurances out of Jaskier in words, touches, and kisses, before finally going down to hear him out.

Dijkstra looked very amused. Geralt growled at him. "Well? Spit it out."

"I'm concerned about the state of the world. This persecution of mages… it's not right, and frankly, it's not smart either. And Radovid won't stop. Not until every mage and herbalist is charred on a stake."

"And what are you suggesting we do about it?"

"Stop him." Dijkstra raised a pointed eyebrow at him. "Permanently."

"I don't do assassinations."

"And I'm not asking you to. Someone else'll strike the blow. I'm merely asking your aid in organizing it." Dijkstra stood, preparing to leave. "You think on this. And if you conclude you'd rather change the course of history instead of riding its current to hell, you come find me. At the Passiflora, in the garret. I'll be waiting."

With that, Dijkstra signaled his men and left.

It was a sudden and important conversation, and definitely merited thought, but Geralt had no space in his head to consider it at that moment. Just then, he had an even more important conversation waiting upstairs. More important in that it influenced one of the things Geralt treasured most in the world: his relationship with Jaskier. He took a deep breath, then took the stairs two at a time, pausing outside their bedroom door. He could hear Jaskier's heart beating quickly, and his footsteps as he paced the floor. Geralt knocked lightly and entered.


	11. Chapter 11

Jaskier stared at him as he entered the room. They both stood silently for a long moment, until Jaskier looked down and sighed, breaking the tension between them. He gestured for Geralt to sit on the bed with him, which he did, clasping his hands and staring at them as he waited for Jaskier to talk.

"I… haven't told you much about my past," he began slowly. "I thought it didn't really matter, to us, to our relationship. Maybe it still doesn't. But lately, I've been learning more and more about yours, so it seems… disingenuous, to not share some of mine. And…" He paused, wringing his hands and sighing. "It's come to my attention that you have a slightly skewed mental image of me that needs some correcting." Geralt opened his mouth to argue, but the sad, almost disappointed look on Jaskier's face stopped him.

"Now then," he said, falsely brightly, "where to begin. My full name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove—" Geralt blinked, startled. He hadn't known he was a _viscount_. "—but I ran from my duties and haven't been home in years, so who knows what's been done with my land. As you well know, I graduated Oxenfurt University as Master of the Seven Liberal Arts and set off as a traveling bard. That… didn't last all that long." Jaskier laughed, self-depreciatingly. "I… hm. I looked around me and all I could see was the worst in people. Anger. Desperation. The rich and powerful taking advantage of the poor and downtrodden. And, well… One thing led to another and I ended up a spy." Jaskier rushed through the last sentence so quickly it took a moment for Geralt to parse what he'd said.

"A spy?" Jaskier nodded. "What did you do?"

"Mostly used the bard bit as cover to take messages back and forth. Had the occasional sketchy back alley meeting. Somewhat frequently played at various courts and eavesdropped on nobles' conversations. That sort of thing." Jaskier waved his hands ambiguously and shook his head. "Anyways, not the safest profession, particularly for someone who's not even really proficient with a dagger. My best tactics to date are still talk my way out or it somehow or run."

Geralt could easily picture a mission gone wrong. Jaskier at the business end of a knife, or running desperately into the woods, praying that wolves wouldn't find him. It sent a chill down his spine to think of how close they'd come, so many times, to potentially never living to meet each other.

Jaskier cleared his throat. "So. Yeah. I'm… not the delicate flower you think I am." Geralt reached out to him, but Jaskier seemed to shrink away from his hand. "Sorry." Geralt paused, trying to determine if Jaskier really didn't want his touch or if he just didn't feel worthy. He decided on the latter, and looped his arm around Jaskier's shoulders, pulling him close.

Jaskier immediately cuddled closer, bunching his fists in Geralt's shirt. "I know," Geralt said, kissing Jaskier's hair.

"You do?" Jaskier asked, voice soft.

Geralt hummed. "Still wanna protect you."

Jaskier giggled, nuzzling further into Geralt's arms. "Okay."

They spent the night just like that, cuddled close and just reassuring each other with their presence. Geralt had no time or headspace to think about anything else. But starting the next morning, he put some real consideration into Dijkstra's proposal.

Killing Radovid. As a witcher, Geralt would have immediately balked at the idea. Now, however, he could see the appeal. The world under the rule of the Eternal Fire wasn't pretty. And it wasn't hard to see that after mages were culled, the temple wouldn't stop. They'd go for herbalists and alchemists, then non-humans, and eventually… witchers. It wouldn't matter that he'd retired.

So, provided that he wasn't doing the final blow, Geralt was actually pretty on board with helping with the assassination of Radovid. It was a necessary evil. If nothing else, it was necessary for his continued peaceful life with Jaskier.

So around midday, he went to the Passiflora, and madame Serenity let him up into the garret to see Dijkstra.

"Geralt! You're here, good. Must admit I wasn't certain you'd show," he greeted as Geralt entered.

"Thought about what you said. World's going a bad way. We're in a unique position to stop it."

"Well, I'm pleased we've come to an understanding." Dijkstra's eyes darted behind Geralt, where he could hear another set of footsteps nearing the top of the stairs. "I believe you know my associate."

Geralt turned slightly, until he could see Vernon Roche entering the room in his peripheral vision. "Roche? You, here?"

"Retired intelligence operatives. We've a club," Roche replied, deadpan. He went on to explain why he was there, what Geralt had already concluded—the North, and Temeria in particular, would never again have a modicum of freedom with Radovid at the helm.

"Alright," Geralt cut in when Roche finished, "what do you want from me?"

Roche explained. "One of our co-conspirators ventured out to meet an informer. He's not yet returned, yet the plan's success hinges on what he's learned. We've got to find him," Roche stressed, "and you're the best tracker around."

The information they gave him was somewhat sketchy, but Geralt ultimately agreed to go out and find the man, starting from the Redanian checkpoint on the Pontar where he was last seen. After a brief chat with their turncoat Redanian army agent, Geralt followed a fairly easy trail south out of the checkpoint to a toppled cobbler's cart, and then another obviously marked trail of shoes to a rock troll cave. From inside, he heard the unsettling voice of a man attempting to teach two trolls to cuss. He recognized the voice immediately—Thaler, former head of Temerian Intelligence. Seems they really did have a club.

Between the two of them, they were able to convince the trolls to let Thaler go, and promised them (falsely, of course) that he'd be back as soon as he had enough leather to make the trolls shoes.

"Just happen to be passin' through, or did someone send you to find me?" Thaler asked on their way out.

"Roche and Dijkstra," Geralt answered succinctly.

"Ah! Mean they've not forgotten me? That's nice." Thaler had a rough, jovial way of speaking that made it difficult to tell when he was being sincere. Geralt tended toward the opinion that almost 90% of Thaler's words were pure sarcasm. "Though I am grateful you came to get me, Geralt. Must have a lot on your mind, all those monsters to kill…"

"Dijkstra didn't tell you?" Geralt interrupted, somewhat surprised.

"Tell me what?" Thaler asked, narrowing his eyes, though that could have been from stepping into the sun, still high in the sky.

"I quit. Work in Novigrad now," Geralt explained in as few words as possible.

"You did what? Never heard of a witcher that's quit. Bugger me, I miss all the city gossip, out on missions in the country like this." Thaler grumbled. Geralt was sure Dijkstra was in for an earful when they got back.

"Hm. Heard about your upcoming plans," Geralt added.

"Huh? They tell you? Clowns."

"Kinda. Didn't offer any details though." Geralt paused. "Maybe you'd be willing? Gesture of gratitude?"

"Sorry, mate. If they were mum, I've got to be mum."

The rest of the walk back to Thaler's cart was filled with chatter about his cover as cobbler, and the shifting tides of the war. Geralt, having spent most of the past year in Novigrad, had few details about the situation on the front. But he remembered one thing as the cart came into view.

He looked over at Thaler. Sure enough, he was wearing a silver monocle, just as Geralt remembered he did. He hadn't emptied his travel bag since the last trip he took—the one to Vizima, with Jaskier. He fumbled around in his bag and pulled out an identical monocle, and held it out. "Yours," he said simply.

Thaler looked at it suspiciously, but didn't take it. "Oh yeah? Where'd you find this?"

"Hut by the bank, small village outside White Orchard. You borrowed an old woman's pan for soot, killed your Nilfgaardian informant, dropped this."

"Pieced it all together, have you?"

"Some," Geralt admitted. "Not all." He grabbed Thaler's hand, which was floating around between them still, and placed the monocle in it.

"Well… I'll take it from here then, Geralt. Thanks again," Thaler said.

Geralt shook his head. "Heading in the same direction. Tie that up to Roach," Geralt gestured to the cart, "we can get back right around sundown."

"Real eager for those answers?" Thaler guessed. Geralt hummed ambiguously—he was, in part, interested in whatever plan Dijkstra and the rest of them were cooking up. Primarily, though…

"Expected for dinner," he replied, already pulling out rope to tie up the cart. It was light—even without a proper harness, Roach should be able to pull it. Roach stood calmly as he harnessed her, then he and Thaler picked up the scattered goods as best they could and set out back to Novigrad. With the cart being pulled, they made a decent pace walking, and reached Novigrad just as the sun was setting. Geralt parted with Thaler outside the Chameleon, deciding to spend the evening with Jaskier, and visit Dijkstra in the morning to get caught up on the situation he'd clearly been left out of.

He entered in a good mood, then immediately stopped at the odd scene he was faced with. Jaskier and Zoltan were at his booth in the back… in what looked like a very serious meeting with Roche and Ves, Roche's second in command. Jaskier's eyes met his a moment later, and Jaskier immediately looked down, almost embarrassed. He slipped out of the booth and met Geralt halfway, holding on to both of Geralt's hands tightly. It was almost like he expected Geralt to act out.

It was then that Roche noticed him. "Geralt?"

Geralt nodded back. "Roche." Jaskier looked back and forth between them in confusion, and then comprehension dawned on his face.

Roche seemed slower about cluing in. "What are you doing here?"

Geralt rubbed Jaskier's fingers reassuringly as he answered. "My place. Heard of the White Wolf?" Roche clearly _had_ heard his gang name. To Jaskier, he said, "Temerian Intelligence, then." Jaskier nodded, then cleared his throat.

"Hadn't occurred to me that you might've known each other."

"Makes things easier, actually," Geralt replied, then louder, to Roche, "I assume Jaskier was asking for your assistance, then."

"Yes, that was my understanding, but what does—" Geralt cut him off by gesturing him back to the booth, and he slid in to the center, facing Roche. Jaskier slid in after him, so he was bracketed on either side by him and Zoltan.

"We need help defending my daughter from the Wild Hunt," Geralt explained, to the point. "I intended to contact you myself, but until today, didn't know where to find you. It's going to be dangerous—I won't lie. Any help you can offer would be appreciated."

Jaskier piped up. "I know I wasn't a full member at the time, and now that I'm out there may be no loyalty to call on, but—" Roche held up a hand, stopping him.

"The only reason I deigned to come was because of how valuable you were as a spy. Your request is owed consideration, at the very least. Unfortunately, with everything I'm involved with at the moment, I can't guarantee I'll have the manpower to assist you. But—" he continued, stopping Jaskier from cutting in, "if the matter isn't urgent, I'll think on it and give you my answer at a later date. Deal?"

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier looked to him, then nodded as well. Geralt rose, which signaled everyone else at the table to do the same, then asked, "We don't yet know when exactly the battle will be. It'd be better to go to you, when the time comes. Where will I find you?"

Roche told him the location of his guerilla base, then at Geralt's suggestion, returned to the Passiflora for Thaler's report. Jaskier looked shyly to Geralt once he'd left. In return, Geralt gave him a reassuring smile and stroked his hair back.

"Anyone else you call for?" Geralt asked once they were settled back at a table with dinner.

Jaskier hummed around a spoonful of stew, tapping the spoon against his chin thoughtfully. "Though I'm sure you could handle the costs, I've begged extra funds from a couple of old sponsors of mine. Besides that, a few contacts from Oxenfurt."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Oxenfurt?"

Jaskier slapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, don't be like that! They're not exactly fighters, but that doesn't mean they're useless! One's already responded, anyways." Geralt hummed, and Jaskier took that as leave to continue. "Shani. She was in the medical school—said she was eager to help out, just tell her when and where. Figured it wouldn't be amiss to have some medics around, if the battle is to the scale I think it's going to be?"

Geralt hadn't thought of that, but hummed agreement, grateful that Jaskier was there to think about the details.

"What about you?" Jaskier asked back, and Geralt told him about the monsters, the Skelligers, the mages, and his troubles finding his wolf school brothers. "Oh yes!" Jaskier cut back in, "and I've talked to Irina and Dudu and Priscilla, who—I know, aren't fighters of course—but who are of course willing to do whatever they can to help, and said they'd ask around their trusted contacts to see if anyone's available." Jaskier paused to eat more—he hadn't been making very good progress on his stew, too involved in the conversation even when Geralt was the one talking—then swallowed and spoke again. "What about… you know…" Jaskier hesitated. "The gang?"

It was still such a new thing, for them to be able to talk about the gang in the open, so Geralt wasn't sure what to say for a moment. Finally he settled on, "thought about it. But can't leave the territory defenseless, either. Don't trust Dijkstra farther than I can throw him, and the rest of them even less."

"Dijkstra?" Jaskier asked, and Geralt remembered that that wasn't the name he used anymore.

"Sigi Reuven," he said, grimacing. He didn't like the code names. Made things too complicated. But Jaskier nodded in comprehension, finally finishing his food and slumping into Geralt's side. He fell asleep not long after, and Geralt carried him to bed before crawling in himself. There was still a lot to do—for Ciri, and for Novigrad—but it could wait until morning. 


	12. Chapter 12

Geralt didn't really take monster contracts anymore. He dealt with monsters in his territory or troubling his people, but it wasn't often that a one would wander into such a big city. Still, he kept an eye on any contracts that were out.

When whispers made it to him that a witcher had taken a contract from the Temple Guard, his curiosity was piqued, and he went out looking. There weren't many witchers left, after all—Geralt probably knew them. He followed the trail from the crime scene, and arrived at the boathouse to a fight already going on. It took him mere seconds to read the situation. The beast he'd been following—an ekimmara, clear on sight. The witcher fighting it had his back to Geralt, but his movements and scent were familiar. It was Lambert, one of Geralt's wolf school brothers.

Geralt unsheathed his silver sword and spun into a supportive stance, protecting Lambert's weak side. They fought seamlessly together, taking the vampire down twice as fast as usual. When the battle was over they paused, just breathing for a second, before breaking into smiles.

"Might've known it was you," Geralt said, flicking the blood off his sword and sheathing it.

Lambert smirked. "Damn, it's good to see you, Wolf."

"Decided to do some hunting in Novigrad? Far as I remember, you never liked this city."

Lambert folded his arms, expression turning serious. "Still don't. Thing is, got a certain matter to take care of."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Maybe. But we'll talk about that later." Lambert headed to the door. "Got our reward to collect. I'm kinda in a hurry. Let's say you earned half, what the hell."

Geralt was shaking his head before Lambert finished. "Reward's yours, I don't… get paid by the guard anymore. But I'll tag along."

Lambert looked at him like he was crazy. "Do I even… no, save that for later too. Sounds complicated."

Geralt accompanied Lambert back to the guard that gave him information. They were in Farcorners—Geralt's territory—so they passed a number of friendly faces that greeted them. Lambert's face twisted a bit in confusion, but he ignored them. They soon arrived at the compound where the contractor waited, and were admitted into a small courtyard.

Geralt could tell Lambert was tense, but Lambert was always a bit prickly. It took him raising his voice to the contractor for Geralt to realize that something was really, truly wrong.

"Where's Jad Karadin? Asking you for the last time!" Lambert yelled. Geralt had no idea what was going on, and soon Lambert was racing after the fleeing man into the storeroom, leaving Geralt to fight the guards in the courtyard.

Though Geralt was slightly annoyed that Lambert had left him in a position where the only option was to fight, during his time in Novigrad, he had gotten used to the concept of killing for his people, and Lambert—no matter how long it had been since they'd last seen each other—was Geralt's people. Either way, the guards attacked _him,_ and he wasn't going to just lay down and die.

He finished up quickly, and followed Lambert to find him killing the contractor. Geralt raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "You gonna explain this now?" he asked, leaning casually against the door frame.

Lambert looked at him sideways, curious again. "More guardsmen will show soon. Meet me at the Seven Cats. Tell you everything there." He passed Geralt and left.

Geralt, of course, then had to spend the afternoon smoothing out the issue of killing the guards. As a crime lord, Geralt being involved in an incident with the Temple Guard was more trouble than it was worth. Hopefully Lambert wouldn't mind taking the fall. Geralt killed the guard posted outside, then summoned his men lurking nearby and gave the orders to make sure news got out that the incident was Lambert's work alone. Luckily, the residents of Farcorners loved him, and he didn't anticipate any trouble getting them to spread the false story.

He returned to the city to pick up Roach, and was on his way to the Seven Cats Inn by sundown. Lambert was waiting out front.

"All right, high time you explained some things. What's this all about?"

Lambert squinted at him suspiciously. "Yeah, alright. But what's with _you_?" He looked like he could barely contain his curiosity. Geralt wondered if he'd really changed that much, then mentally shook it off. Of course he had.

He grunted noncommittally. "You first."

Lambert sighed. "Want the short version or the long one." Geralt just gave him a stern look and he spilled. Lambert was looking for the killer of his friend—a cat school witcher named Aiden. The pain and fondness in his eyes when he said Aiden's name convinced Geralt of his cause. He'd never seen Lambert look so soft. Geralt felt a quiet rage well up within him. Lambert was one of his, and Aiden's death clearly hurt him tremendously. He needed to be avenged. Jad Karadin and his band of assassins had to go.

"We'll find them," Geralt said, feeling the tension in his jaw as he spoke.

Lambert, who had been looking off into the distance as he retold his story, turned back to Geralt with a look of wonder and confusion. " _Now_ will you tell me what's up? You're… different. I thought for sure you'd chew me out for the 'killing an unarmed man' bit, at least."

"Quit being a witcher." Geralt shrugged. "I'm a mob boss now." Lambert burst out laughing.

"You're kidding," he huffed, gathering his breath. Geralt's mouth tweaked. It never ceased to amuse him how people reacted to his change of occupation.

"Not kidding. But that's not important. Karadin's old mate, Vienne, is inside, right?" Geralt had overheard that bit of the conversation back at the storehouse. "Let's go."

Geralt led the way, and Lambert pulled himself together and followed, sobering quickly when he spotted their target, sloshed in a corner. Geralt led the conversation, and Vienne was drunk enough to spill the locations of the other band members—Hammond in Skellige, and Selyse in Tretogor. Topics dried up, and Geralt and Lambert stood to go.

Lambert shook his head, disappointed. "She doesn't know anything. We need to talk to Hammond and Selyse." He was oddly calm and rational about it. Geralt had never seen him restrain his anger so well.

So of course Vienne cut in. "Don't go looking for Karadin," she slurred, voice modulating wildly. "If he senses you nipping at his heels, he'll kill you without batting an eye!"

Geralt could see the anger rise in Lambert's eyes at the suggestion that they weren't a match for Karadin. "We'll see," Lambert replied, tense. "As for you…" He trailed off and turned to Geralt, almost in question.

Geralt shrugged. "Do whatever you think's right, Lambert. Not here to preach morals."

Vienne called for help, and Geralt could see a group of elves on the far side of the inn stand. Comrades, he supposed. The Seven Cats wasn't really in Farcorners, but it was still a popular inn for Farcorners residents. And luckily, Geralt's men were there in force.

As Vienne's friends rose to their feet, half the inn also stood, blocking their way to her table. Some of them were elves themselves, and Vienne looked completely shocked that her "own people" would stand against her.

"Maybe take the back way out, boss?" one of the elves closest to them asked, looking to Geralt. He nodded.

"Well, Lambert? Going to finish the job?" he asked, nodding to Vienne. Lambert, who had also been shocked still at the inn's response, narrowed his eyes at Vienne at Geralt's hinting. He executed her before she had time to react.

"Take care of this," Geralt told his men, ushering Lambert out the back.

"Aye, boss!" came the rowdy response.

They paused just outside the door, listening to the sound of fighting behind them as Geralt's men took out Vienne's friends.

"Gotta say, wasn't expecting that," Lambert said after a moment. "So, really a mob boss, huh."

Geralt grunted in response. "How do you want to do this? I can't leave the city that long, but I've got some boys from Skellige. They don't see much action around here, I'm sure they'd jump at the opportunity to mess Hammond up."

Lambert nodded a few times, dazed, before actually responding. "Right, yeah. I'll go to Tretogor, talk to Selyse. Where should we meet, then?"

"Come by my place. The Chameleon." Geralt wondered what Lambert would think of the place he settled. He wondered what Lambert would think of _Jaskier_.

Geralt sent a small but well-trained crew to Skellige to shut down Hammond and any operations he had in Skellige. He also bid them to check in on Crach an Craite and Mousesack, as his letters had yet to be returned. The whole trip was to take an estimated three weeks, but Lambert returned from his much shorter journey after just one. For once, Geralt had had the opportunity to tell Jaskier about this visit in advance, and came down promptly when Jaskier called up the stairs: "Geralt! Your brother's here!" He could hear the smile in his voice.

Lambert was loitering by the door, taking in the room. It was early afternoon, so the cabaret wasn't exactly busy, but as it doubled as Geralt's place of business, a number of his men were scattered about the tables, drinking and chatting and discussing business. Geralt frowned. His first instinct was to tell them off again for doing that in front of Jaskier, but quickly reminded himself that it didn't matter anymore. Jaskier already knew.

Jaskier met him at the bottom of the stairs with an excited grin, and bounced alongside him to meet Lambert by the door.

"Not the kind of place I was expecting, Wolf," Lambert called to him as they approached. "But then, you've been defying all kinds of expectations lately. Who's this?" He quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier.

"Jaskier, meet Lambert. Lambert, this is my lover." He stumbled only a tiny bit over 'lover.'

Jaskier enthusiastically extended a hand. "Nice to meet you! I've heard so much." Lambert raised his eyebrows at Geralt, and he shrugged. They didn't usually talk much about Kaer Morhen to outsiders, but, well, Geralt had already thrown out pretty much everything else about being a witcher. Vesemir would probably rip him a new one.

Lambert ignored the hand, stubbornly keeping his arms crossed. "You go soft, Wolf? What is this?" Jaskier pouted, but he soothed Geralt with a hand when he started growling lowly.

Jaskier laid one hand on Lambert's crossed arms and Lambert full-body flinched. "I'm so sorry for the loss of your friend," he said. The words were heartfelt, but the delivery pointed: _are you really in a position to judge?_

Lambert grunted, and shrugged off the touch, but said no more.

Geralt gestured towards the stairs with a nod. "Let's talk in private." Lambert nodded, and Jaskier gave Geralt a quick peck on the cheek before meandering off to the bar.

Geralt led Lambert to the meeting room, and he noted the magic wards with interest. Geralt broke out some of his nicer hard liquor, which Lambert drank like a shot.

"You really have fucking settled down, huh. A house and a lover and a stable day job… What next? Adopt some kids?" Lambert spat the words out like poison.

"Ciri dropped by a month or so ago," Geralt commented, gently reminding Lambert that he already _had_ a kid, sort of. Lambert scoffed.

"Of course. She get along with her new daddy? Who's dad and who's papa?"

" _Lambert._ " Geralt could take quite a bit of Lambert's spite, but not when it was directed at Jaskier or Ciri. "Back on track. I sent a crew to Skellige to track down Hammond. It'll take a bit longer for them to get back though." He eyed Lambert, who didn't respond, but visibly worked to rein in his emotions. "How was Tretogor?"

"Hm, I learned a bit. Karadin trades in, uh, 'live goods' on the sly. Owns a ship called the Pearl of the Coast—runs between here and Skellige. Changed his name, too, to Roland Treugger, who officially is a respected Novigrad trader and philanthropist. Has a residence in Gildorf."

Geralt considered the information. 'Live goods,' that meant slave trade. Disgusting. And with that trading route, Karadin likely still did business with Hammond. It seemed too conspicuous to not be related. Geralt was glad his men had orders to take the whole operation out. Slave traders were right up there with religious extremists and abusive civil servants as the slimiest people Geralt knew. "And Selyse?"

"No longer." Geralt nodded. That's what he expected.

"Do you want to go for him now? His residence in the city shouldn't be hard to track down. And if he does still have allies in Skellige… well, my men will take them out."

Lambert met his eyes, still apparently surprised by the new ruthlessness in Geralt, but then smiled maliciously. "Yeah, good. Let's take him out now, then."

They rose, but Geralt remembered something else. "Lambert… When this is over, I need something in return. It's for Ciri," he explained, when Lambert looked about to complain. He shut his mouth. "She's on the run from the Wild Hunt, and needs allies. I assume that won't be a problem?"

Lambert coughed, then said tersely, "of course not. When and where?"

"She'll be coming back here, to regroup. But I can't leave the city—I was hoping you'd get word to Eskel. Vesemir should be on his way." Lambert nodded agreeably.

"Yeah, sure. Once this is done."

Geralt led them back downstairs, and stopped to ask directions to Roland Treugger's estate. He almost passed up asking Jaskier out of habit—Jaskier knew nearly everyone in the city, and wandered it seamlessly, but Geralt had gotten too used to avoiding him when working. They were going out to kill the man, after all. But he pushed against his instinct and called Jaskier over. Jaskier gave succinct instructions, kissed Geralt firmly on the lips, and wished them luck, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Jad Karadin was expecting them, and welcomed them into the courtyard of his estate. Geralt didn't believe it for one second. For some reason, Lambert was being uncharacteristically quiet, so Geralt stepped in.

"You're a witcher," he stated, somewhat surprised. Karadin's silky, merchant clothing and well-trimmed beard couldn't hide the yellow cat eyes sitting deep in his skull. "What school do you come out of?"

"That of the cat," replied Karadin, "so few of us left." He smirked, very slightly. It made Geralt's hackles rise. Even without the background knowledge that Karadin was trading in slaves, there was something _off_ about him.

"I could understand a witcher becoming a hired assassin, but a merchant?" Geralt posed the question with disbelief, but he supposed his own job change wasn't so different.

Karadin pointed it out too. "I could say the same to you. I understand 'crime lord' to be a more managerial position. Surely you of all people understand the dream to change one's life. I simply did not stop at dreaming. Nor did you."

The calm, metronome-like tone was grating on Geralt, but he restrained his anger for Lambert's sake. Lambert already had a hotter temper than he did, not to mention this revenge was more personal to him. Geralt was impressed he hadn't burst already.

He dragged as much information as he could out of Karadin—what kind of life he was leading now, if his wife and kids knew of his past, how he managed to hit it big in trading. When pressed on Aiden's murder, Karadin claimed Aiden attacked first, and though the sympathy Karadin injected into his voice felt like cockatrice venom seeping through him, Geralt put out a hand to keep Lambert back. It wouldn't change the result, surely, but something in Geralt still insisted on hearing both sides of the story.

That said, he and Lambert were there for one reason only. When Karadin was done talking, Geralt said, "maybe you've changed, maybe not. To me and Lambert, it doesn't matter."

Lambert, who had been stewing the whole conversation, finally spoke up. "You killed Aiden. Fuck your new life. I don't believe in giving second chances."

Geralt stepped back, gesturing Lambert forward. "Do what you want, Lambert. Your friend, your vengeance." Geralt's hand was twitching to get some action itself, but he held back. Lambert's friend, Lambert's fight. Karadin pulled his weapon and put up a fight, but it was clear he'd not kept up practice. Against Lambert, a witcher on the Path, he didn't even last five minutes.

Lambert wiped his blade clean and turned to Geralt. "Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome," he replied. "If you're ever nearby Novigrad, stop by. We'll put you up."

"Are you ever coming back to Kaer Morhen?"

Geralt hadn't really thought about it. "I don't know. Maybe. But for now, my life's here. I can't abandon my territory. And I won't leave Jaskier."

Lambert huffed a short breath of laughter, and slapped him amiably on the shoulder. "You're really hung up on that guy, huh? Finally cut your ties with sorceresses then?"

"If by 'cut ties,' you mean 'stopped having sex with,' then yes."

"Well…" Lambert's tone suggested he was saying goodbye, but he hesitated. "You could treat me to some more of that liquor before I go, I guess. Seriously, that was really good stuff. Where'd you even get it?"

"Need a well-stocked bar to be a crime lord," Geralt joked. "But seriously, sip it this time. It's not meant to be chugged."

They returned to the Chameleon, and drank and swapped stories late into the night. Jaskier joined them in little bursts, and he and Lambert bonded over a game of "I've never," which they summarily roped him and half the bar into. By the end of the night, Geralt felt they'd really, truly warmed up to each other.

Lambert left the next morning, complaining loudly of a hangover, and Geralt and Jaskier saw him off at the door. His attitude towards Jaskier was much more gruff in the light of day, but Geralt felt a fondness wash over him to see a genuine smile on Lambert's face as they said goodbye.

"Do you ever get restless, want to go back out?" Jaskier asked as Lambert turned a corner and disappeared.

Geralt hummed, and pulled Jaskier against him with a hand over his shoulder. "Sometimes. There's a simplicity to hunting monsters. But…" He pressed a kiss into Jaskier's hair. "You're always an outsider, out on the Path. Now, with you, I have a home."


	13. Chapter 13

After Lambert left, Geralt continued life as normal. He was still waiting for replies from a number of people, and meanwhile still had to patrol his territory and consult the other crime lords about the situation with Junior and ask Dijkstra about the plan to kill Radovid. It felt almost like the world was converging on one point, and everything was happening simultaneously. For that reason, he wasn't at all surprised when Ciri and Yennefer showed up, out of the blue. Apparently they'd hitched a ride back from Skellige with the men he'd sent to take care of Hammond. He ushered them into the meeting room, which was actually pretty cramped with him, Jaskier, Ciri, Yennefer, and Triss bundled into it.

"So, what have you learned?" Triss asked when the door closed, the words flying out as if they had been waiting in impatient suspense.

"Oh!" Ciri pulled out a paper roll and handed it to Geralt before responding. "First off, this is from Crach. He has a proposal that I think sounds feasible." Geralt unrolled the letter as she spoke, and Jaskier came over to peer over his shoulder. It amounted to the same things Ciri was saying, albeit in more detail. "If we meet the Wild Hunt in Skellige, as new Queen of the Isles, Cerys has promised the clans' full support."

"But even with the clans of Skellige united, we don't have enough fire power to fend off the Hunt," Yennefer argued. "This is not a crew of rowdy bandits, they're more powerful than that. We need magic." Her eyes met Triss's, across the room. "We should think about reconvening the Lodge."

The Lodge of Sorceresses was a previously powerful group of female mages that wished for autonomy and security from the ever-changing tides of politics. Though their plans ultimately failed and the group split up, Triss, Yennefer, and a number of other key figures were still alive and well.

Triss was hesitant. "I don't know, Yen, the others won't come out of hiding and help for nothing."

Yennefer was already shaking her head. "I know. I've made an agreement with the emperor. In exchange for its help, the Lodge will be granted amnesty and find asylum in Nilfgaard. That will be our bargaining chip. Triss, will you help?"

"Of course," Triss said softly. "Even have an idea where we could start."

"What happened with Avellac'h?" Jaskier chimed in, turning to Ciri. She smiled back.

"He made a full recovery, with some help from Yennefer and Mousesack. In preparation for the coming battle, he's gone to try and convince one of the generals of the Hunt to change sides. He'll be a bit later," she assured them. "What about here? Any news?"

Geralt hummed, but Jaskier took over responding. "Already got a number of responses. Crach you know about, and Mousesack, I'm assuming, but we also ran into Lambert and he promised to search out the other witchers. Of course, we have the full support of Geralt's band here in Novigrad," at this, Ciri raised an eyebrow at Geralt, and he shrugged in response, "though we don't know how we'll use it yet. We've also had some surprising success recruiting monsters in Geralt's debt."

It was true. Salma and Sarah had done good work, and while the monsters weren't many, they were powerful enough to shift the tide of battle. Sarah had convinced nearly twenty rock trolls to leave their caves, whereas Salma had found seven of her succubus sisters willing, as well as a few vampires with sympathies to humans that Geralt had let go over the years. The whole crew was temporarily set up at an abandoned loggers' camp south of Novigrad, waiting for news.

"We'll be ready," Geralt assured her, and Ciri brightened.

News shared, everyone dispersed, and Geralt's first destination was Dijkstra's bathhouse. It was still a few days until their official meeting, but for some reason Geralt had been called out, and it was good timing anyway. He intended to figure out how Radovid's assassination was going.

Dijkstra's men waved him in to the office immediately, and Dijkstra had clearly been waiting. He turned, looking important with his hands folded behind his back. "Geralt, good of you to come. You did so well with our last request, I've come across another problem I'd like to ask your assistance with."

Geralt nodded and crossed his arms. "First off, want to tell me how that's going? Thaler wouldn't spill without your go-ahead."

"I thought you weren't interested in being part of the assassination?"

Geralt grunted. "Still have a vested interest in its success. Haven't seen any progress though."

"Take it easy. Radovid's careful, hasn't left his ship docked in Oxenfurt for weeks, not without twenty or more of his personal guards combing the streets in every direction. Have to lure him out somehow. But that's not what I asked you here for." Dijkstra met Geralt's eyes and readjusted his stance, taking weight off his bad ankle. "I've had something of a personal problem crop up that I could use your eyes on."

"What kind of personal problem?" Geralt asked.

"I'd rather show than tell. And keep this hush-hush, will you? It'd not do either of us good for it to get out." Geralt nodded agreeably, and followed Dijkstra through the bathhouse and down a secret passage in an emptied bath. At the end of the hall was a dejected rock troll, bashing its head rhythmically against the wall.

"Bart! Stop that! Now!" Dijkstra yelled at it.

The rock troll, Bart, didn't stop. "Bart bad… Bart make Sigi lose chorfun."

"Bashing your head against the wall won't change that," Dijkstra reasoned with Bart, surprisingly gentle.

"Bart hurt, Bart less thinky. Bart less thinky, Bart sadless," the troll explained, walking over to them.

"Where'd you get the troll?" Geralt asked, bemused.

"From Zerrikania," Dijkstra replied shortly. "Won him. Card game with a camel merchant."

"Your jokes are getting better by the minute," Geralt retorted, refraining from showing his amusement outwardly.

"See me smiling?" Dijkstra asked, turning towards him with a frown. "I'm dead serious."

"Bart eye bumpy horses. Hot there. Sigi Bart take. Good Sigi," Bart put in.

"Don't seem to have trouble communicating with the troll," Geralt remarked. "Why'd you bring me down here?"

Dijkstra pointed to the right. "Take note of that hole. We'll come back to it later. And see that door?" Dijkstra waved his hand farther right, next to the hole. "Vault behind it—until recently filled with Novigrad crowns and countless other valuables."

"Bart guard," Bart added. "Then boom! Chorfun go." He swung his arms out on 'boom,' mimicking an explosion.

"Translating into Common, someone fuckin' made off with nearly twenty tons of my gold, and all the lighter stuff. And you…" Dijkstra turned to face Geralt. "Will help me get it back."

"Your men couldn't take care of this?" Geralt asked rhetorically. Dijkstra stared at him a moment, then sighed and explained.

"Agh. The gold wasn't mine alone," he said, pacing. "This is the vault for the members-only savings club I run." Geralt had heard of it before—Dijkstra had invited him to it when he officially stepped up as crime lord. "So for obvious reasons," Dijkstra continued, "I'd prefer it if my temporary liquidity problems remained private… The only reason I'm trusting you with this is because you turned me down." Geralt had known the dwarven banker Vimme Vivaldi long before he'd come to Novigrad, and had entrusted all his banking needs to the him out of longstanding loyalty. In return, he got the best loan and savings rates of anyone in the city.

Satisfied with Dijkstra's explanation, Geralt probed further, and learned that the sewers past the wall were covered in pops mold, which gave off a highly toxic gas. Dijkstra admitted to investigating the sewers with one of his men, but ended up giving up the search when his companion threw up the antidote and was attacked by a lurking _something_. Dijkstra valued his life too much to look further. He gave Geralt the remaining pops mold antidote, wished him good luck, and left.

Geralt took the antidote immediately and started poking around the sewers. The liquid tasted vile, but no worse than any of his witcher potions, and he examined the rubble from the blast, muttering to himself. "Edges curled out… Hmm… bathhouse drain pipes seem to converge here." Further along, he found more bits of metal and grating. "Pipe's grate… Mortar on the bars, so it was in place at the time of the explosion. No traces of magic. This was no spell, it was a bomb. Now why am I not finding any pieces of it?" He eyed the lazy, shallow current soaking his boots. "Could be the current swept them away." He started following the current farther in. "Bits of pipe all the way over here," he noted, walking on. He kept one eye on the trickle of water ahead of him as his mind wandered. "Fine grating… couldn't push much through that."

As he turned a corner, a sudden rush of movement that he more felt than saw had him drawing his silver sword instinctively. He jumped back, peering through the gloom. The open space he'd just entered was occupied by a face-down corpse on the right side, and… drowners. Of fucking course. Geralt hated the sewers. They stunk of more things than he really wanted his nose to parse through, marinated him in said scents so that he smelled them for the next month, no matter how many times he washed, and were infested with the most annoying and least profitable quarry in his repertoire.

He didn't have any necrophage oil, not having expected to battle monsters on a simple trip to Dijkstra's, so instead he kept a careful distance, dodging them as they charged and casting Igni on them when they inevitably circled back together. When the pack of drowners was down, he inspected the corpse. "Must be the thug Dijkstra hired," he commented, but didn't find anything of note on the body. He burned it with Igni, in hopes the drowners would leave the area without flesh to scavenge, and moved on in the direction of the current.

He kept his sword out, fighting off lone drowners prowling the corridors, and found a number of shiny trinkets along the path. _The thieves must have come this way as well_ , he thought, _and dropped some loot in their haste._ Further down, there was another body, slumped against the corridor wall. "Dijkstra didn't mention anyone else… must be one of the thieves," he concluded. "Vomit everywhere. Couldn't keep the antidote down any more than the other guy." Backing away with slight disgust, Geralt burned this body too, after checking carefully for any identifying marks, of which there weren't any.

Nearing the end of the tunnel (he could see the light filtering down, and hear the swish of waves and hubbub of the port, so at least he knew where it let out), he finally found a clue. "Bottom of a container," he mumbled, twisting it around in his hands and sniffing it instinctively. "Silver cylinder… Runes etched in the bottom. Warped from the explosion. Bomb part, must be. Smells like… wyvern oil… and… caramel?" Geralt was familiar with witcher explosives, but they all used a version of reactive powder—saltpeter or something similar. He'd never come across one that had sugar in it.

He took the final few steps to the docks, just outside the sewers, then followed the topside route back to the bathhouse. After reporting to Dijkstra, they determined that the only viable clue they had was the bomb part. Since it had come from an intact pipe, it must have been planted by someone inside the bathhouse on the day of the incident. With just a little snooping, they found the pool that connected to that pipe, and checked it against the list of guests that had visited that day. One, a Margrave Henckel, Dijkstra knew to be dead, so Geralt knew the next step in his investigation. Before that, though…

"Dijkstra, I don't mind looking into this further, but I'll need something in return," Geralt said before Dijkstra left the room.

Dijkstra turned, eyeing him suspiciously. "I assumed I'd owe you a favor. What do you want?"

Geralt approached, stepping close enough his voice wouldn't carry. "Ciri is in trouble. She's being chased by the Wild Hunt, but we're going to bring the fight to them in Skellige. I know you can't leave the city—honestly, neither can I—but financial support would be just as useful. And," Geralt added, remembering his small monster army, "if I could borrow Bart." Dijkstra looked thoughtful for a moment, but eventually agreed, and Geralt went off to Margrave Henckel's house to look for further clues. It didn't take much searching to realize that the thieves were acting under Whoreson's orders. What's more, according to their notes to each other (not at all hidden—Whoreson really didn't train his men well), they were captured by Menge, and the treasure seized. After reporting to Dijkstra, it was left up to Geralt's discretion how to continue the search.

Geralt returned to the Chameleon, and discussed the issue with a bored Ciri and Jaskier. Ciri was convinced she and Geralt could sneak in, but Jaskier was hesitant. "The witch hunter barracks are built like a fortress, and swarming with hunters. I don't think it'll be so easy to get in without setting off the alarm." He proposed a diversion—one of Geralt's men would take Dudu, masquerading as Triss, to the barracks and deliver him to Menge. Meanwhile, Geralt and Ciri would slip over the back wall and start taking out the patrolling hunters one by one. With any luck, the whole barracks would go down, and not only could Geralt get the information for Dijkstra, one major witch hunter base would be crippled, which would hopefully make it easier to hide the mages just a little bit longer.

Feeling pressed for time, Geralt pushed to enact the plan that night. He chose Sukrus, a Skellige ex-pirate, as his deliverer, and he and Dudu were called and informed of the plan. They set out for the witch hunters barracks at midnight, Sukrus confident, Dudu nervous. Geralt didn't blame him. Dudu had no reason to trust Geralt beyond Jaskier's word, and he had the most to lose—if they failed, for whatever reason, Dudu could easily end up dead.

Geralt and Ciri watched from afar as Sukrus and Dudu entered the front gates of the barracks, then slipped through the alleyways around the back. Novigrad was constantly moving stock, so it wasn't hard to find a stack of boxes and temporary shelving tall enough to climb over the back wall. They ended up on the roof of what appeared to be an outside storage hut, and only two guards were patrolling it. They split off and took them down simultaneously, leaving them no time to cry for help. There were three doors into the main building, each sturdily built and large enough it seemed obvious that someone would notice them opening.

Luckily, once again, between an outer staircase to the second floor and the two of them combined, Geralt hefted Ciri up onto the roof, and she in turn helped him scramble up. They silently snuck up on and picked off all the guards pacing the courtyard before turning back to the main building. By the time they squeaked the door open a crack, their diversion party had made it to Menge's office. The clear sign was Menge shouting, "imposters! Guards!"

Geralt and Ciri burst through the door at this signal, swiftly cutting down the guards on the first floor, who had all turned to the stairs. There was a balcony running along the top of the space, and the guards above had clearly deemed them the bigger threat, focusing their energy on raining bolts down on Geralt and Ciri as opposed to answering Menge's call. When the threat on the first floor was dealt with, the two rushed up the stairs, meeting two torturers and a number of guards. Geralt and Ciri fought back to back, keeping blades off each other and ganging up on one person the minute they were thrown off balance. It was only a few minutes of fighting before they were able to rush into the office.

Sukrus was bloody, but smiling, and Dudu was nowhere to be seen. Instead of worrying, Geralt focused on retraining Menge, and between the three of them, Menge was pinned on the floor, neck between two swords in moments. Only then did a mouse crawl out from behind the bookcase, shifting into Dudu's preferred halfling form.

Menge, of course, refused to say anything. Dudu then came to the rescue, and picked out a large shipment to Kovir with just a quick glance at the barracks' finances. Menge's eyes lit up in anger, which Geralt figured was enough of an admission, and he swiftly removed Menge's head from his shoulders. They swiped the vault key, took the back way out, and lit the barracks on fire, wiping them of evidence.

In the end, everything worked out well. Ciri alleviated her boredom, Dudu gained some trust in Geralt and vice versa, and Sukrus was just happy to get the chance to punch someone. Dijkstra promised Geralt a hefty portion of gold once his treasure was retrieved, and the witch hunters were busy for the next week or so attempting to rebuild, which meant the mages were mostly left alone.

The crew returned to the Chameleon in the early morning, as dawn broke on the horizon and the flames behind them licked the skies. Geralt gave Ciri a hug goodnight, then slipped into bed next to Jaskier, who grumbled at being woken, then cuddled closer.

The next day, feeling refreshed, Geralt went to the Big Five (or at this point, Big Four) meeting, and they discussed taking out Junior. He'd been escalating his actions, and not only with the stealing of Dijkstra's treasure. Geralt was still unaffected, which actually worried him more. Before they could get far into discussion though, Junior's men attacked the bathhouse. Cleaver stormed off in a huff, ready to take out Junior's hideouts with or without a consensus, and right after he left, one of Geralt's men burst in.

"The Chameleon just got hit. They took Jaskier."


	14. Chapter 14

Geralt didn't like Junior. He was a disgusting waste of a human being—Geralt heard his gang recruited by getting young boys hooked on fisstech and then providing drugs instead of pay. There were also some unsavory rumors about what he did to girls in bed. Geralt made sure Junior was kept far away from his brothels, but there were still rumors about girls in The Bits going missing. In general, Junior was just an unpleasant man, in all aspects.

So when the other three members of their crime syndicate started talking about offing him, Geralt had no objections.

Of course, none of that mattered after Jaskier was kidnapped.

Geralt acted so quickly, Cleaver couldn't even organize his own strikes on Junior's hideouts. Geralt took down every single one alone. Junior's house on Temple Isle had been standing open for a while, no clues left. The casino didn't give any clues either, but he tore it to pieces anyways. His last stop was the arena, which was the most promising location. Geralt didn't even try to sneak in. He lopped off the guards' heads with one swing, and kicked the iron gate open so harshly, the screeching of the metal echoed all the way down the hall. He took on every man standing, barely even looking at them. When he got to the arena manager, he stabbed him swiftly through the chest, then searched the body as all the arena guests fled behind him. In the arena's secret locker, he finally found what he was looking for—Junior had been working for Radovid.

Geralt stormed back to the bathhouse and tersely reported this to Dijkstra. The letter he'd found concluded that Junior was meant to create conflict between the Big Five—now definitively the Big Four, seeing as Junior wouldn't survive the day if Geralt had anything to say about it—so as to weaken the administration of the city and allow Radovid to swoop in and take it. What Junior got in return wasn't clear. Dijkstra suggested that Roche had a Redanian contact, but Geralt would need a proxy to go in his stead. At this point, Geralt was too known of a figure to gather intel.

Bringing down Junior's businesses had taken up most of the day. Geralt returned to the Chameleon to find Ciri, distraught, and Triss, comforting her. When Ciri saw him, she ran to him and jumped into his arms. "I'm so sorry!" she sobbed before he could ask. "I was here, but I…" She broke off with a harsh cry. "By the time I got down, they were gone!" Geralt hushed her, stroking her hair. The rage that had been fueling him quieted slightly as he held her, and Triss approached, a hard look in her eyes.

"I can help. If you have any of Jaskier's hair, I can use divination to find out where he is now."

Geralt nodded, and carefully extricated himself from Ciri before running upstairs to collect Jaskier's hair from their bed. Triss and Ciri then accompanied him to the fountain outside the Passiflora, and Triss cast her magic. The images were fuzzy—a nondescript courtyard, Whoreson's slimy little face, and… Geralt recognized that tower. It was on the western gate of—

"Oxenfurt," Ciri whispered, wiping her eyes.

"Triss, portal," Geralt ordered, eyes not leaving the fountain, though the images had long faded.

Triss nodded agreeably, checking again to make sure nobody was around. "I can't make it too close," she explained apologetically, "the streets are patrolled too frequently and the guards will get suspicious. But you shouldn't be more than ten minutes outside the city. Good luck," she added, holding the portal open. Geralt stepped through, only to realize when he got to the other side that Ciri had come with him.

She glared at him, eyes red. "It's my fault he was taken. I'm coming."

Geralt didn't try to argue. "C'mon."

Their travel passes were new, thanks to Geralt's connections, and the guards barely looked at them before waving them through the gates. Geralt was somewhat worried about finding the right mansion, but he needn't have been. Junior's men were loitering outside the gates, marking it clearly. Geralt and Ciri waited for the patrolling Redanian soldiers to turn a corner, then summarily slit the throats of the guards and burst through the gates. The place was swarming with Junior's men, which was all the better for Geralt and Ciri. The thought of revenge pumped hot through their veins, and neither of them blinked at the blood that sprayed their faces. Most of the buildings were locked, but Geralt checked each one, straining his hearing outside for any signs of life, before they moved on to the main house.

Inside, Geralt listened for heartbeats again. There were a couple upstairs, and a few more further inside the house. Before he could decide which way to go, one of the heartbeats upstairs went quiet. Suddenly terrified that they'd arrived too late, Geralt took the steps three at a time, and it was only his long years of desensitization to gore that kept him from throwing up at the top of the steps. He could hear Ciri vomiting behind him. Hanging by the wrists facing the stairs was a woman's corpse, beaten and slashed, and the floor was stained with bloodstains so dark, Geralt knew they would never come out. It was worse than he'd thought. He should've taken care of Junior ages ago. If he'd hurt Jaskier… Geralt remembered his purpose, and burst into the next room, where Junior was clearly washing his hands of the blood of his latest victim.

Geralt couldn't even speak, he was so incandescent with rage. Junior turned around, snarl on his face, and Geralt smacked him to the floor without a pause. Ciri came in behind him, shaking, and proceeded to kick Junior in the stomach with the toe of her boot. And again. And again. Then she broke away, biting her lip to keep from sobbing.

Geralt took a deep breath, then forced himself to speak. "Jaskier."

"I-I'll tell you anything, give you—"

Geralt picked Junior up by the throat and threw him into a nearby chair, looming over him. He worked his jaw open and repeated: "Jaskier."

"D-down in the cellar, he's unharmed, I swear, please don't—" Geralt couldn't take the begging. If it was any other being, in any other situation, Geralt would have felt immediate pity. But in this singular situation, to this singular being, Geralt just felt cold. Geralt pulled out his sword and pierced cleanly through Junior's torso, then stepped back to clean his sword off and watch the body bleed out. Ciri had taken off down the stairs the minute Junior revealed Jaskier's whereabouts, and Geralt caught up to her at the top of the stairs to the cellar. She looked hesitantly up at him, then folded over the sleeve of her shirt and wet it with her spit to clean the blood spatter off his face. When she was satisfied, she pushed him down before her, and he slammed the final thug's head into the wall so hard it cracked, before turning and scanning the room for Jaskier.

He wasn't hard to find. "Geralt…" he whispered from his seat on the cold concrete floor, hands tied behind his back. He looked at Geralt as though he was seeing a ghost. Geralt went to his knees hard before him, pulling Jaskier into his arms. His eyes stung.

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered, voice cracking. He could feel Ciri's presence as she circled around them to cut Jaskier's bonds. As soon as his hands were free, Jaskier fisted them in Geralt's shirt and pulled him closer. He was quiet for a moment, taking uneven breaths of air and trembling, before he pulled himself together.

"I knew you'd find me," he said, smiling weakly. The sour tang of his fear still lingered in the air, and Geralt cursed himself for not coming sooner. Ciri had knelt down behind Jaskier and was rubbing a soothing hand on his back. From his view over Jaskier's shoulder, Geralt could see the blood specks in her hairline and on the backs of her hands. Her clothing was a lost cause, and presumably his own was in a similar state, but that didn't stop Jaskier from nuzzling into it. That, more than anything, proved to Geralt how much the kidnapping had affected him. Normal Jaskier would complain up and down about the mess and insist Geralt took a bath before trying to hug him.

"C'mon," he said lowly, "let's get you home." He helped Jaskier to wobbly feet, and held himself back from sweeping Jaskier fully into his arms. He wanted to coddle him and never let go, but knew it would probably be best, after such a situation, for Jaskier to hold onto whatever independence he could manage. Jaskier gripped Geralt's forearm tightly, limping slightly on his left leg, but didn't protest as they rose, one step at a time, out of the cellar. Once in the courtyard, Geralt paused in alarm—he hadn't even thought about how they were getting back—but Ciri gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and pulled out a little magical device.

"Triss, we've got him. Portal back please?" she called into it, and not a minute later, a portal opened right in front of them. Geralt led Jaskier carefully through and to the nearest chair he could drop into before casting an eye around the room. His gang had already cleaned up the Chameleon—clearly Whoreson's men didn't have time for much besides smashing what was in reach and grabbing Jaskier—and were milling about, angry and restless. Triss, Yennefer, and Avellac'h—that was new—were off to one side, looking worried and irritated and stern, in turn.

Geralt turned to hear their grievances first. To Avellac'h, he said, "thank you for taking care of Ciri. I appreciate it." The elf gave a dismissive huff, but no answer, so Geralt moved on. "Yen, what's wrong?"

"I've found where Rita is, but I have no way of freeing her inconspicuously," she said. To his questioning glance, she answered, "Deireadh Prison, in Oxenfurt. I met the only man ever to have escaped and learned there may be a path in through the sewers, but it's a prison for mages. Whatever measures they have keeping the prisoners from using magic is preventing me from even scrying to see if she's still alive."

"So we enter through the sewers and leave through the sewers. Easy enough." Yennefer was shaking her head.

"It's not going to be that simple."

"Why not?" Geralt shot back. "We've already taken out Novigrad's witch hunter barracks. If that's ever traced back to us, we'll be in a war with them anyways. Better to take out more before they connect the dots." The witch hunters were a pain in Geralt's side, truth be told. Along with the temple, but there wasn't much Geralt could do about that at the moment, short of starting a rebellion. They were fanning the flames of prejudice, and his territories, home to most of the non-humans in the city, were subsequently getting harder and harder to protect.

Yennefer looked shocked, but Triss, who had worked with him closely in the past months, didn't seem at all surprised. "He's got territory to protect, Yen," she tried to explain, then smirked. "He's a real leader to his people," she added, a teasing glint in her eye. He put on a show of being annoyed for her, but secretly… he was getting the hang of being responsible. It had never been as harrowing as it was that day, when Jaskier was kidnapped, but in general, he felt good about making his people's lives better. Of having "his people" to begin with.

"What else do you need?" he asked after a moment.

Triss looked thoughtful, then said, "if we're really bringing the fight to the witch hunters, I have a lead on Philippa I could use help with. Apparently she was staying with an old lover, a sorcerer, but he was taken recently in the witch hunts and his goods are being auctioned off this weekend, at the Borsody Auction House in Oxenfurt. If you have enough able men, we could storm it. I hear there's a secret passage out through the vaults, and if we line up the timing with the prison breakout…"

"They'll split the guard, serve as distractions for each other," Geralt finished. "What's this auction got to do with Philippa?"

"There's an owl on the block," Triss explained. An owl. Polymorphy. Dammit.

Geralt sighed. "At least she's restrained, for the moment." He turned and raised his voice to address his men. "I know you're all as angry as I am that we got hit. Unfortunately, there's only one Whoreson Junior, and I already took the liberty of claiming his head." There were some whoops and sighs of relief. "Luckily for the rest of you, there's still work to be done. In a few days, we're going to hit the witch hunters in Oxenfurt—at the auction house, and at the prison. Triss and Yen," he gestured to them behind him, "will give the details." With that said, Geralt made a dismissive gesture and returned to where Jaskier was slumped in his chair.

He spent the next day constantly at Jaskier's side, trying not to overcrowd him while still keeping watch over his recovery. Ciri stuck around too, telling them recent stories of her time in Skellige, and older stories of her childhood summers there. Avellac'h reported that he had convinced whatever general he'd set out to convince, and supposedly the Wild Hunt would get no reinforcements from their home world during the upcoming battle.

In a moment of genius, Geralt called Dudu in and offered him a job. As the one who'd taken out Junior, Geralt was saddled with the duty of swiftly bringing Junior's territory in order. Dudu had proven himself an able businessman, and a loyal one. Management over a couple casinos, brothels, and the arena would be child's play for him.

Geralt didn't join his men that weekend in Oxenfurt. Too concerned about Jaskier's recovery, and too self-flagellating to do anything about it. Jaskier spent the day shifting between relaxing alone, to relaxing downstairs at the Chameleon, chatting with people at the bar. Geralt followed him about like a shadow, carefully distanced. After his third time bringing Jaskier chamomile tea, Jaskier addressed it.

"You're hovering."

Geralt stood silent. He was. He couldn't deny it, but he wasn't sure what else he _could_ do.

Jaskier looked at him for a long moment, but Geralt wouldn't meet his eyes. Eventually he sighed, and gestured Geralt forward. "Come here."

Geralt jolted forward, as though he had been stuck to the floor until Jaskier gave him permission. He hesitated, reaching out to brush his fingers ever so lightly over Jaskier's shoulders. Jaskier shivered slightly, but didn't object. He felt so fragile under Geralt's fingertips. Weak. Geralt had never had such a weakness before. Even Ciri, as a child, he trained in sword fighting so she could protect herself. Though he worried about her, like any father would of their daughter, he knew that she was strong of body and of spirit, and could protect herself.

Jaskier couldn't. And that terrified Geralt. He gripped Jaskier's shirt lightly. Jaskier hadn't gotten fully dressed in his usual style, instead wearing a simple shirt and trousers, with a finely woven woolen shawl draped around him. He looked very cozy, Geralt thought, watching him from afar all day. But Jaskier's skin was cold to the touch, despite the shawl, and Geralt instinctively moved closer to share his body heat. _What can I do_ , he wondered, knowing he was one of the least comforting people on the Continent.

Jaskier leaned back into him, closing his eyes. "Just… stay here," he answered Geralt's silent question. "Not away, watching me. Right here. I'll get better," he assured Geralt, meeting his gaze fully for the first time that day. Geralt hadn't been able to look Jaskier in the eyes since he brought Jaskier home, too wrapped up in his own incompetence. "You saved me," Jaskier told him, but it only made Geralt's chest ache more. They spent the rest of the day huddled up together, both desperately trying to forget the events of the last few days.

Even without his help, the plan in Oxenfurt was a success. They rescued not just Margarita, but Sile de Tansarvile and a handful of other mages and alchemists from the prison, and brought back a number of powerful magic artifacts, including the owl that was presumably Philippa, from the auction house. Not to mention, they killed enough witch hunters in Oxenfurt that Radovid ended up pulling out of the city entirely, focusing all his pieces on securing Novigrad for himself. His heavily guarded ship moved up the river to Novigrad as well, and Geralt went to meet with Dijkstra and Roche and Thaler. Everything was in place for the ideal assassination. All they had to do was lure him out.


	15. Chapter 15

The next week was a mess of activity, culminating in the sending off of the first batch of ships to Skellige. The rescued mages and sorceresses recouped in Geralt's safehouses while Geralt went to gather the group together for the assassination of Radovid. They met late at night in a warehouse owned by Dijkstra, and Geralt felt the owl's unblinking eyes on him from the rafters, even though Philippa had barely been resting for a day.

"Well, Geralt? What's this about then?" Dijkstra asked when he arrived. Dijkstra, Thaler, and Roche had clearly been waiting on him.

Geralt stood next to Dijkstra's chair and leaned back on the railing behind him, folding his arms and creating an air of nonchalance. "I gather the assassination didn't go well," he began. Roche cut him off with a derisive snort.

"That's an understatement," he said, shaking his head. "We can't get to Radovid on his ship, we've been through this already."

"Right," Geralt nodded, "so we lure him out. I got my hands on something he can't resist—" here Geralt paused for suspense, "Philippa Eilhart." The pause paid off. Dijkstra nearly rose to his feet, but Geralt swung forward and held him lightly down in the chair. "Calm down, Dijkstra. I know you have reason to hate her, but taking out Radovid is bigger than any one of our personal vendettas. Keep it together."

"What are you suggesting, exactly?" Thaler chimed in.

Satisfied that Dijkstra would stay in his seat, Geralt leaned back again. "We can't tip off Radovid, which is why we'll need Philippa. She'll show herself to witch hunters, somewhere we designate. When news gets back to Radovid, he'll want to go personally to execute her. When he's in position, we spring the trap." He leaned forward and placed his hands on the table to emphasize his next point. "Radovid may be a great tactician, but he's blinded by hate. He'll let his guard down for revenge on Philippa, and nothing else."

Though Dijkstra was less than happy, they all eventually agreed that this plan was their best bet. Geralt would be in charge of getting Philippa to agree, and the location was set for the bridge to Temple Isle—they could preemptively block off one side of the bridge, creating a dead end to drive Radovid into. Just outside the building, Philippa flew down and morphed back into her human form.

It was the first time Geralt had seen her in over a year. She still wore her hair in two black braids, one over each shoulder, and wore a long, fitted, low-cut dress, as was the style for sorceresses. Added to that, however, she now wore an elegantly patterned blindfold, presumably to cover the ugly pitted sockets of her missing eyes.

"So I hear you're to convince me to lure Radovid," she said by way of greeting. "Congratulations, consider me convinced." Her pompous, higher-than-thou way of speaking had always rubbed him the wrong way, and this time wasn't any different. Geralt bit back sarcasm and crossed his arms.

"May I ask what swayed you?"

"Your cause. I think it vital that Radovid die." Geralt couldn't help the sneer on his face, and was glad that Philippa was blind. "I'm to show myself on the bridge to Temple Isle then?"

"Mm," Geralt agreed, "I have a place we can set up. A couple hours of minor decorating and you leaving it in the morning, and the hunters will have the whole day to investigate and bring the information back to Radovid. We could have him within 24 hours."

Philippa morphed back for their return to the Chameleon, and Geralt directed her and a team of dwarves to set up the house to look like her hideout. He had brothel workers keep an eye on Radovid's ship at the docks, and went to sleep with Jaskier. As strange as it seemed, even to him at times, he trusted his people to do good work, and fully expected success from this plan.

The next morning Philippa was eating breakfast downstairs when Geralt woke up. She assured him that there was no way the witch hunters didn't see her, and she'd return to the house sometime around sundown to give Radovid plenty of time to make his way there. Geralt reassured her that he'd be around to make sure none of the other conspirators decided to get back at her, and then they were interrupted by Jaskier draping himself over Geralt's back.

Philippa looked bewildered at the casual affection, but then Ciri came to join them, and Triss, and Zoltan, and out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw her expression soften, just slightly. Geralt had always seen Philippa as scheming and cold-hearted, no matter what she did, but maybe she did have a tiny bit of heart left in her. Either way, Geralt didn't trust her, and likely never would. He looked away and caught Ciri staring at him, and she gestured him away. He nodded, pecked Jaskier on the cheek while maneuvering him off his lap, and the two of them snuck upstairs.

"What is it?" he asked her when they were far enough away.

"Nothing just yet, but Philippa and Margarita want to speak to me." Ciri looked worried, and a little angry. Geralt understood. The Lodge sorceresses (minus Yennefer and Triss of course) hadn't spelled any good for them in the past, particularly for Ciri. Geralt wasn't too fond of them either.

"Don't waste any time, do they. I don't like this," he said bluntly, crossing his arms and frowning.

"Neither do I," Ciri replied. "I bet they have plans for me. And they're deigning to inform me of them." Geralt bet they were. He looked at Ciri a moment. They'd been through a hard few days, and she'd been on the run for months before that, so she still looked a little pale and ragged. But there was steel in her eyes. As much as she would always be Geralt's baby girl, he knew, just as he knew before with Jaskier, that this wasn't the time to coddle her.

"Got nothing to be afraid of," he assured her. "Just go, listen to what they have to say."

"And if they try to force me into something?" Ciri countered, wary.

Geralt's mouth quirked slightly. "Can't believe you'd ever let them." The worry eased from Ciri's face, just slightly. He gave her some pointers on how to deal with each of them, and then their discussion was interrupted by noise downstairs. Specifically, Jaskier noise.

"Lambert! You've returned, oh that's fantastic. And brought guests! Hi, hello, nice to meet you— oh, I should fetch Geralt. Geralt!!" he hollered up the stairs. Geralt and Ciri descended, and Ciri immediately went on a mad dash to the door.

"Uncle Vesemir!" she cried, jumping into his arms. Geralt hooked Jaskier around the shoulders and steered him back to the door, smiling.

"Jaskier, the one with Ciri is Vesemir, my teacher," he murmured into Jaskier's hair. All the newcomers were still focused solidly on Ciri, but Geralt could see the witchers' ears twitch, listening in. "Lambert you know, and the one in the red gambeson is Eskel. I've told you about him." There was one other person loitering at the door, and Geralt was honestly surprised to see her. "Is that… Keira Metz? What are you doing here?"

Keira stepped back, almost shyly, flaxen hair falling in her face, but when she met his gaze it was firm and unflinching. "I… ran across her in Velen," Lambert answered for her. "She was about to get herself killed. I couldn't in good conscience let her go, so I brought her along." Lambert was also looking at him now, with challenge in his stare.

Geralt held in a sigh. He hadn't intended to be confrontational. At the same time, he wasn't entirely comfortable with the number of Lodge sorceresses under his roof even before Keira had arrived. But there wasn't much to do about it. "That's fine," he said shortly. Jaskier put a hand on his chest and took over.

"It's been a hectic week, we're all a little stressed. But come in, settle in. We're happy to have you."

"Yes!" Ciri exclaimed. "It's been so long, come sit! I want to know what you've all been up to." She tugged Vesemir over to their now-crowded table, and the rest of them followed. Once they'd sat, though, Vesemir and Eskel redirected their attention now to Jaskier, curiously.

"And you must be…"

"Geralt's lover, Jaskier, bard and owner of this establishment," Jaskier answered, holding his hand out to Vesemir, who shook it politely. Eskel shot Geralt a bemused smile, and Geralt looked down, embarrassed, but pulled Jaskier further onto his lap. Jaskier resettled comfortably, and started off a long back-and-forth with Vesemir about their histories. Vesemir was surprisingly knowledgeable about academics, but then again, Geralt supposed he _was_ a teacher, of a sort. This was interspersed with Ciri catching the witchers up on what _she'd_ been up to, and by the time the conversation was winding down, it was about time for lunch, so more food was delivered to the table, and they continued on into small talk.

After a while, Ciri excused herself for her talk with the sorceresses, and Vesemir requested Jaskier's help getting settled. Geralt and his brothers relocated to Geralt's favorite booth with a bottle of Geralt's good liquor to catch up.

They all sat down, and Lambert and Eskel admired the sightlines from the booth for a moment, silently relaxing. Geralt poured the drinks, and Eskel spoke up. "So. You settled. Didn't think that would ever happen." The _what the hell, man_ was implied. Geralt hummed, taking a drink instead of answering.

Lambert answered in his stead. "Fucking weird, right? I hardly recognized him when I came by last." Lambert slammed his glass on the table and tapped it for a refill. Geralt sighed and poured. Lambert still drank too fast. "It's not so bad though," Lambert conceded, more softly. "The bard's not bad."

Geralt and Eskel turned to stare at Lambert. If Geralt had changed, Lambert had too. Geralt knew Lambert didn't hate Jaskier, but it was incredibly surprising to hear it straight from him. "Yeah," Eskel agreed with Geralt's silent comment, "don't know I recognize you either, actually. Did you know," he added as an aside to Geralt, "he treated Keira like a princess the whole way here. Stopped at inns every night, helped her on and off of her horse… It was bizarre."

"Hey!" Lambert complained, clearly embarrassed. Eskel smirked, shrugging.

"He still won't say what happened in Velen. Anyway," he redirected back to Geralt, "I've heard some from Lambert, but tell me again."

Geralt hummed again, thinking, and spoke slowly. "I was at Loc Muinne. Everything went to shit, as I'm sure you know, and I found Letho. He'd been in the middle of all the problems I'd run into all that year, and we fought. I won, but… didn't finish it. Still don't quite know why. It just sunk in, suddenly. I've always hated politics, yet always end up getting involved. I thought… Maybe I was running away. But I thought maybe I could find a place disconnected from that." He huffed a laugh. "Didn't really end up that way, but that was the idea. Came here, found him…"

"Tell me about him," Eskel encouraged.

Geralt smiled. "I love him. He's light, and energetic, and talkative… Opposite of me, really. But he's also loyal and understanding and stubborn." Geralt shook his head. "Meet him yourself."

They drank together a while longer, then were pulled apart for various duties. Geralt met Roche and his men at Irina's theater to get ready for the strike, and they were informed a few hours after sundown that Radovid was on the move.

Roche organized his men into three groups, one led by him and one led by Geralt to convene at the side of the bridge Radovid would approach, and the final one led by Ves, which would circle around to the other side of the bridge and block it off. Geralt felt somewhat honored to be trusted with leading Roche's men, even if it was only for a short while. They snuck silently through the streets, and retreated further into the shadows near the bridge as Radovid and his guards arrived and scouted the area. Radovid shouted orders to his guards and took off, carelessly (stupidly) down the bridge. One contingent hurried to catch up to him, and the rest spread out in a semi-circle, blocking off the entrance.

Geralt and Roche had agreed to wait twenty paces before starting the attack, and Geralt patiently counted them out as the men behind him shuffled restlessly. The wait paid off though, and Roche and Geralt jumped out at the guards at nearly the same time, surprising them and throwing their defense into disarray. It took mere moments to disarm them, and Roche gave out follow-up orders.

"Group one, stay here and keep an eye on these guys, and the other for reinforcements." He waved at the Redanian guards, half killed and half knocked out. Roche's group nodded, immediately splitting into pairs to watch the roads in all directions and gather together the bodies on the ground, binding any still with a pulse. "Group two," Roche continued, turning to Geralt's group, "follow us." Roche tapped Geralt on the shoulder and nodded towards the bridge, and Geralt nodded back and led the way. After all, he had to make sure Philippa got out of this okay, or he'd have broken his promise.

Radovid's men had clearly heard at least some of the scuffle, and they met some of the guards running back in their direction. Geralt deflected attacks, but mostly left the clean up to Roche's men behind him as he and Roche continued farther down the bridge. As they came upon the alley that his safe house was on, Geralt could see the barricade on the other side of the bridge, and Ves on top, defending that side from reinforcements from Temple Isle. They must have been patrolling the streets, to get there so quickly.

Radovid had been carefully sequestered off into the alley where Philippa's safe house had been made, and Geralt's lips twitched at how perfectly that had worked out. He flipped his sword lazily in his hand in a menacing sort of way as he and Roche approached, blocking off the alley. Radovid looked panicked, and rushed towards the nearest door. "Open up!" he shouted, pounding on it. There was a light on inside. "I command you to open this door!"

The door opened, and Radovid's face went abruptly pale. He backed away, stumbling, as Philippa stalked out. "You needed merely ask," she replied, almost playfully, and blew some kind of magic dust into his face. Radovid screamed, covering his eyes as he was blinded. "That settles the score." She smiled maliciously, pulling out a dagger. Radovid had stumbled into a closed gate, and was pawing at it weakly. It left him pitifully open for Philippa to stab him in the heart, from the back. "And that," she added, the satisfaction audible, "was from the heart." She kicked the body off the end of her dagger, squishing it into the cobblestones. She flicked a final satisfied grin down the alley at Geralt and a gob smacked Roche, then transformed into her owl form and flew off.

"Well then," Geralt said, pushing off from the wall he was leaning on, "mission accomplished. Head back?"

Roche shook himself. "You didn't say she would actually be here!" he exclaimed, argumentative in his shock. Geralt shrugged. He had assumed she'd want to deliver the final blow, but she hadn't exactly told _him_ her plans, either.

Ves came up behind them and cut in. "Lads… the time to discuss this is later. Let's get the hell away. Place'll be swarming with Redanians in minutes."

This finally sobered Roche, and he swiftly organized his men to disperse and reconvene back at the theater. When they arrived, Thaler was waiting for news.

"Well? What? Is it done?" he asked, without pause.

"It's done," Roche assured, rounding the planning table to pour drinks. "Come, let us toast. To the North! Temeria!"

"Temeria!" Ves cheered, raising her glass.

"Bloody Temeria!" Thaler agreed, happier than Geralt had ever seen him.

Geralt wasn't nearly so joyful, nor was he particularly married to the cause of a country he didn't really belong in anymore, but he agreeably raised his glass along with everyone. He would admit, at least, that a world without Radovid was one step closer to a peaceful one.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: you may have noticed the chapter count went down by one. The next chapter is the last of the main story, but I do have an epilogue. I just decided to make it as a separate fic in a series instead of tacking it on to the end of this fic. So don't worry! There are still two parts to come! I'm just changing the way they're delivered a little.
> 
> And thanks to everyone reading and commenting!! It's been very validating <3

When the toasts were done and everyone was drinking, Geralt spoke up about his concerns. "Sure this isn't premature? Radovid's dead, but it's a long way from that to a free Temeria. War's not over, not even close."

Thaler was already shaking his head. "You're mistaken." Geralt tilted his head in question, and Thaler went on. "Tomorrow at noon, the commander of Army Group "Center" will sign a truce in Emhyr's name... A truce whose wordin' we agreed with Dijkstra." He sounded almost proud.

The pieces began to fall into place in Geralt's head. "So back there in Velen, when the trolls nabbed you…"

"Yes," Thaler agreed, "I was returnin' from the last round of talks. Emhyr will keep Aedirn and Lyria... But in exchange for Radovid's head and a stop to guerilla activities, he will withdraw from Temeria—"

"Which will become the empire's vassal state," Roche finished, looking dejected.

"Self-rules, internally!" Thaler argued, as though to cheer him up. It sounded like a back-and-forth that had been done many times before. "With its own courts, administrative structures and army!" Thaler gestured grandiosely, voice high and excited. "The Silver Lilies will bloom 'neath the rays of the Great Sun. So I'd say were I a poet." Thaler shook his head, snorting, and sobered a little. "But I'm not, so all I'll say is there was no other fuckin' way."

Geralt understood both sides. On the one hand, getting just that much autonomy from an agreement with Nilfgaard was impressive. On the other hand, it still wasn't the freedom that the Temerian loyalists really wished for. Roche was the only figure that could convince the guerillas to back down and swallow this deal, but even he wasn't exactly happy about it. For good reason.

"Roche…" Geralt reached out, attempting the bare minimum comfort he could provide, and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "You okay with this?"

Roche looked miserable, but when he met Geralt's eyes, he held them firm. "I'm prepared to do anything for Temeria. Even whore myself out." Geralt felt for his friend, but he just nodded, dropping his hand. He wouldn't disrespect Roche's resolve.

At that moment, Dijkstra finally appeared, stepping dramatically onto the stage from the shadows. There were enough heartbeats around with all the men gathered that even Geralt was surprised to see him there.

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." The stage was still set with the props from the last play, and the fancy feast table and fake throne room background lent his words a regal air. The group was silent as they watched Dijkstra cross the stage, sweeping his hand out in a grand gesture. "That but this blow might be the be-all and end-all here." He spoke the words with gravitas, and an eerie, heavy tension settled between them all. No one could speak for a moment.

Finally, Ves asked, "what's that?" Her voice was hesitant.

Dijkstra replied calmly, as though nothing was amiss. "Vakmeth, act one, scene seven. Always wanted to play that...never cast as anything but a halberdier." In the context of where they were, the lighthearted comment felt wrong. But then, Dijkstra's face settled into a firm scowl. "Geralt, what Thaler told you—put it out of your mind. There will be no truce with Nilfgaard. Redania, under my enlightened rule, will fight on until it wins." His voice grew louder, firmer, as he went on. "And when it does it will unite all the North. Including Temeria." At the last word, his eyes settled on Roche, as though trying to communicate something to him.

Thaler was the first to respond. "Wha... How? This is not what we ploughin' agreed!" he shouted, indignant. Geralt felt for him. Thaler had clearly done much of the legwork for this agreement with Nilfgaard, and from their conversation back at the trolls' den, Geralt knew that he, at least, honored their co-conspirator agreement.

It irked Geralt, too. Regardless of whether or not Dijkstra _could_ unite the North and win the war, this was the first Geralt was hearing about it, too. He thought they'd been getting along well lately. At least as business partners. It was a blow to his trust in the spy that Dijkstra still hid something so important from him.

"You two-faced whoreson… I will not allow this," Roche said, stepping forward.

Dijkstra made a slight hand wave, and his men surrounded them, weapons out and ready. "Actually, you, Roche, should be the first to understand I've no choice."

"Why the hell would I understand?" Roche cried, more panicked now.

"Because you too are a patriot," Dijkstra sneered. "Geralt—this doesn't concern you. You may go," he dismissed with a wave.

Geralt snorted. "Like hell it doesn't. You know I can't let you kill them, Dijkstra." It was a little painful really, that Dijkstra was forcing him to make this decision. Geralt still wouldn't say Dijkstra was a friend, but he was getting used to working with the guy. Not to mention, his loss would greatly destabilize the city.

If this was before Geralt's move to Novigrad, he wouldn't have even tried speaking to him. But despite how Dijkstra's betrayal hurt, Geralt still felt like maybe, with the right words, he could sway the man. They had worked together now for over half a year, and they worked well together. They had even come, Geralt would wager, to understand each other.

Geralt stepped forward. "Dijkstra… think about this a little. I won't let you kill them." He spoke confidently, but inside his stomach fluttered with nervousness. His mind was spinning trying to come up with the right words. "You've seen my work—you should know you're not going to win this one. I'll kill you if I have to… but I think we'd both rather I don't." Geralt could see the hesitation on Dijkstra's face through the gloom. He wasn't as good a speaker as Jaskier, but he took a breath and kept trying. "Come on… is it really so bad, what we have here? Just stand down, we'll forget this happened." He could hear Dijkstra's teeth grind together. "Do you need a demonstration?" Geralt asked, taking one step further.

"Dammit, Geralt," Dijkstra bit out, finally. "You win, I do have more self-preservation than ambition, it turns out. Just barely, though." He waved his men off, and Geralt grinned. The relief was heady. When he turned around, Thaler and Roche were staring at him, open mouthed. They hadn't been privy to Geralt's life here, or his growing working relationship with Dijkstra, so this must have come as a surprise. Geralt merely shrugged, then gestured Dijkstra closer.

"Join us, then. You can toast to surviving the night," he joked.

Throughout the next week, the temple guard scrambled to figure out what happened, but without the support of the witch hunters, they were hopelessly understaffed. Geralt took advantage of the lack of guards to prep ships in the harbor to sail to Skellige. The mages, witchers, medics (courtesy of Jaskier's friend), Ciri, and Avellac'h would be leaving, to meet up with the army in Skellige and prepare for the coming battle. On the way, they'd also swing south and pick up the monsters Geralt was able to assemble.

Geralt visited the monster camp that week to update them on the situation, and found a heartwarming scene of cohabitation. Geralt's Farcorners residents clearly realized they were here on his invitation and had taken to delivering them supplies. Éibhear was made aware of the deadline, and worked to deliver as many silver weapons as he could manage before the end of the week.

Yarpen finally arrived, along with a strong-looking band of dwarven warriors. Geralt had barely any time to catch up with him, but took a few moments to express his gratitude. Roche also stopped by later in the week, and reported that now that their deal with Emhyr for Temeria's freedom was solidified and the Redanian army in chaos, the guerilla soldiers had a free moment and would join their battle.

By the end of it, Geralt and Jaskier saw everyone off at the docks and returned to a very quiet, lonely Chameleon.

"Feels empty, doesn't it," Jaskier commented. The first floor still had its nightly business, but the absence of their friends was noticeable. Geralt hummed, dragging Jaskier upstairs. Jaskier giggled all the way up the stairs. "Silly man," he chastised at the top. His smile was more natural than it had been since… the incident, but it was still fragile. They'd been so busy Geralt hadn't had a chance to check up on him since the rescue of the mages in Oxenfurt.

"You doing alright?" he asked now. He sat on the bed and Jaskier fell easily onto his lap, straddling him. He waited quietly as Jaskier studied his face, running his fingers lightly over his cheekbones and jawline.

"I won't lie and say it wasn't terrifying," he said finally. "But I wasn't lying then, either. I knew you'd come for me. I just… wish you didn't have to." Geralt gave a questioning hum. "I don't want to weigh you down," Jaskier explained. "And I know you don't like killing…" He trailed off, eyes going distant, clearly remembering the many bodies at that house.

"You don't. Weigh me down." Geralt tried to think of something reassuring to say. _They deserved it. I'd kill more to keep you safe._ Not exactly uplifting. _I liked killing him._ That was the opposite of reassuring. "You keep me human," he settled on. "I need you. I'll always protect you. You're not a burden."

Jaskier buried his head in Geralt's neck, and Geralt could feel the smile against his skin. "Okay," he said simply.

Over the next few days, Geralt felt the weight of a choice hanging over him. He knew he had to support Ciri in her fight—he wouldn't forgive himself if he missed it—but at the same time, it was hard to leave Novigrad. Jaskier was here, as well as all the kind people in his territories who depended on him. He filled his days with work and tried not to think about it—settling his new acquisition of Junior's territories and businesses, renegotiating the treaties between the crime lords and the Temple, and bringing order back to the streets. Without support from the witch hunters, and with a little threatening from Geralt, the temple pulled back from prosecuting mages and non-humans. Geralt couldn't stop the rhetoric entirely—it was wartime and scapegoating was common practice—but he did limit its spread and cut off authoritative enforcement.

Each night, Geralt and Jaskier used the megascope Triss had set up at the Chameleon to check in with the preparations in Skellige. Preparations seemed to be going well—the location was set, the army prepared, and everyone was finessing their weapons and confirming their strategies. Yennefer and Avellac'h were, according to Ciri, sniping at each other over the roles of the magic users, while the other sorceresses left to find some sort of stone that would supposedly summon the Wild Hunt to the desired location.

After the check-ins, Geralt would get antsy, sharpening his swords and cleaning his armor in front of the fire. Jaskier came to him one night during this ritual and leaned his forehead against Geralt's back.

"What can I do, love? Why so conflicted?" he asked.

Geralt laid down his sword and stared blankly into the fire. "It's hard to leave. To leave you. People here depend on me, and there's a lot to be done. At the same time…"

"Ciri needs you," Jaskier finished.

"Hm."

"Well, you have to go and support her. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't." Jaskier came around Geralt's side and slid into his lap, and Geralt shifted to allow it. When Geralt looked up at him, Jaskier had that look on his face that meant he was coming up with a really stupid idea. "I know! You should train me to take over for you! That way—"

"No," Geralt replied immediately.

"Oh, come on," Jaskier whined, "I know I don't look like it, but I'm actually pretty business savvy, I could handle it for a little while."

"You do remember you were attacked just a couple weeks ago? I'm not exposing you to danger again," Geralt growled. Stupid bard.

"Yeah, well, that's really just proven that I'm a target regardless how much I know about the business, so I may as well know what it is I'm being kidnapped for," Jaskier argued, hands starting to fly as he worked himself up. "Besides, it's not like I'll be alone. I'm sure Zoltan and the gang will stick close, make sure I'm not, y'know, murdered or anything, and— Dudu!" he exclaimed suddenly, nearly smacking Geralt in the face. Geralt was having trouble following the conversation, but luckily Jaskier tended towards long-winded explanations. "We can get Dudu to replace you, just for a day or two. With him playing you and me protecting your interests, nobody will even know you're gone."

Geralt hesitated. Dudu replacing him was actually a sound idea, but he still didn't like the idea of leaving his responsibilities to anyone else, even if it _was_ Jaskier. Jaskier saw the hesitation in his eyes, and placed both his hands on Geralt's face, meeting his eyes steadily. "Hey. We can do this. I promise you I won't let things fall apart, and really, what's the alternative? You leave no one in charge? You have to leave. The best we can do is make you as comfortable with that as possible." He didn't like it, but Jaskier was right. Geralt swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

"Tomorrow," he said hoarsely. "I'll take you tomorrow."

The very next day, Geralt began taking Jaskier around for his meetings. Jaskier stayed quiet throughout the meetings, but pestered Geralt with questions after each one. He wanted to know everything about the people Geralt dealt with, how Geralt dealt with them when they didn't do what he wanted them to, what Geralt's major goals were at the moment. When they didn't have meetings, Geralt showed Jaskier around his territories, and sat with him for hours in their room, catching him up on how Geralt ran his business. By the time Dudu came around to take over for Geralt, he found he wasn't holding on quite so tightly to the reins of responsibility.

He left for Skellige that evening, by portal. Jaskier saw him off with a big hug, and multiple lingering kisses, until Yen yelled, "I may be a powerful sorceress, but I can't hold this all day, you know!" Jaskier then added two more quick kisses and pushed Geralt through the portal. Geralt went easily, as he always did for Jaskier.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Thanks for joining me on this journey~ ^^
> 
> Epilogue will be posted tomorrow!

The portal let Geralt out in the commanders' tent, where Avellac'h and Yennefer took him through the plan for the battle. The Lodge of Sorceresses would spread across the cliffs and form a magic barrier that would encompass the bay, preventing the Wild Hunt from jumping worlds and escaping. Likewise, the Skellige longships would be positioned just outside the bay on either side, to cut off the escape by sea. Ciri and Avellac'h would stay in the center of the bay, at camp, and use the Sunstone to summon the Wild Hunt. Ciri, folded up on herself in the corner of the tent, was clearly very put out about this.

The witchers were given the vanguard, and would be on a ship in the middle of the bay, hopefully the first to make contact. Vesemir had, very correctly, argued that only a witcher or, perhaps, one of the vampires, had the strength and skill to take out a general of the Wild Hunt. Avellac'h agreed, and gave him first pick of weapons and crew members.

After Geralt was briefed, he wandered the camp. It was strange to see such a mix of people—no, of _beings_. The rock trolls and the Skelligers were, oddly, getting along well—arm wrestling and sparring and collecting boulders. The boulders, when Geralt asked, were apparently going to be rock troll ammo, to throw at the Wild Hunt's ships and hopefully sink a few—or at least crush a couple soldiers from afar.

Salma came up to him later, too, and proudly informed him that because succubi wield fire magic, which was strong against the Wild Hunt's ice magic, each of her sisters was assigned a different unit to protect. Geralt was happy to see them being treated well, and it assuaged his worry that the monsters would be mistrusted by the mostly human army.

He poked into the medic camp, and met Jaskier's friend Shani. She and her medical school friends were joined by some of the mages and the druids that Mousesack brought, and would apparently be joining each ship in small contingencies, along with setting up an area at the base camp. When Geralt brought up the risks they were taking boarding the attack ships, Shani argued heatedly that they couldn't save anyone if they didn't have access to the battlefield. In the face of her obstinacy, Geralt backed down. She seemed to know what she was doing.

He finally made his way to the leader's camp, and flipped open the flap to see Crach an Craite, his two children Hjalmar and Cerys, Mousesack, Vesemir, Yarpen, and Roche all gathered. They turned as he entered.

"Geralt!" Crach bellowed, ushering him forward to lay a huge hand on his shoulder. Even with his witcher strength, the pat was heavy.

Geralt took stock of the Skelligers, whom he hadn't seen in years. Hjalmar and Cerys had grown a lot. Hjalmar was scarred, with a full facial beard and hair just as bright red as his father's. He was an inch or two shorter than Geralt, and thick with muscle. He grinned brightly when Geralt faced him. Cerys, beside him, was maybe half a head shorter, had a braid down her back a shade or two lighter than Hjalmar's hair, and also had her share of scars. Her lips pulled into a thin smile as he looked her over, and the smile pulled on a set of claw marks set deep into one cheek. She'd clearly not left all the fighting to her brother.

What set them apart the most, however, was the gold circlet set on Cerys' forehead. Geralt had heard from Ciri how she'd helped both siblings in their trials for the crown—Hjalmar slayed a giant, and Cerys lifted the curse of a hym. She'd also apparently assisted Cerys in investigating the incident that killed many boys aspiring for the crown, linking it back to Byrna Bran, the wife of the former king. This was the final trial that led to Cerys being crowned the first ever queen of the isles. Ciri had wondered aloud, after telling Geralt and Jaskier the story, if Hjalmar would've gotten the crown if she'd only helped his investigation instead. They would never know. The siblings certainly didn't begrudge her for her choice, anyhow.

Crach had aged since last Geralt had seen him, but not so significantly as his children. He was just as broad, his hair just as red, not yet turning gray, and his laugh just as deep. He'd clearly collected a few more scars, and his eyes were wearier, having seen more of the world, but not yet defeated.

Mousesack was also a sight for sore eyes. He most definitely looked old—but then, he'd looked old since Geralt first knew him, decades ago, so at the same time, he looked exactly as Geralt remembered. His skin was still wrinkled, his hair still gray, and his eyes still bright. He looked good.

The rest, Geralt had just seen in Novigrad, so he quickly bobbed his head in greeting and turned back to Crach. "What's this gathering about?"

"Oh, just going over the boat divisions!" Crach explained, gesturing to the papers in front of him. They looked at first glance like lists, but every two or three items were crossed out or circled and moved to a different list, to the point that it would probably have been better to just rewrite everything.

Geralt tried to figure out what they'd decided and quickly gave up. "Hm. I thought Avellac'h's tent was doing the strategy meeting. Why aren't you there?"

Vesemir answered. "They're only concerned about the magic users." He shook his head, obviously fed up. "They only went over how many ships would be where, and then promptly dismissed us to figure out crews and boarding strategies on our own." Geralt held in a snort of laughter. Of course Yennefer and Avellac'h weren't interested in the actual logistics.

"So what have we decided?" he asked, turning back to the papers.

"As the vanguard, our ship needs to have strong fighters, ones that can hold off the Hunt soldiers while we focus on the generals," Vesemir explained, pulling out a sheet from under the pile. Geralt leaned forward to read it. The names listed were Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, Katarina + Roselia (v), Yarpen + co., and Hjalmar + co. (ship). "Hjalmar's crew can manage the longship and are experienced fighters. In addition, we're boarding the bruxae you scouted and Yarpen's company." Geralt nodded along, wondering how many the crew was. Anticipating the question, Vesemir added, "it'll be a small crew, but we can't afford to have anyone on board who's not an experienced fighter. Ours is also the only longship without a medical crew," here he raised his eyebrows teasingly at Geralt, "so don't die." Geralt quirked his lips in response.

"Seems like you have it all figured out," he remarked, standing to full height again.

Crach slapped him suddenly on the back, and he tensed against the blow. "Just about!" he laughed. He pulled out a map of the bay, with the longboat formations marked. "Your friend Roche and I will head the ships cutting off escape by sea, and as soon as our crews are finalized and the ships boarded, we'll be ready to take 'em!"

"Good," a quiet voice said from the entrance. They all turned to see Avellac'h holding open the tent flap. "Be ready in the morning, then. We summon the Hunt tomorrow at noon." With that, he let the flap down and walked off. As everyone digested that information, it occurred to Geralt that they had probably all be waiting on him.

He was glad the battle would be soon. He was ready to fight, and win. _And_ , he thought with a twitch of his lip, _get home to Jaskier._

The battle took a day and a half. Geralt got home five days after that, supporting an exhausted Ciri, through a portal made by Yennefer. The first evening all three of them crashed, sleeping for a solid twelve hours, and the next evening there was a huge celebratory party to their success, at the Chameleon. The morning after that, Geralt and Jaskier finally had a quiet moment alone.

"So? I've heard stories, but I'd rather hear it again from you," Jaskier said, a quiet excitement in his voice. As per their usual conversations, Jaskier was washing his hair.

"Hm. What have you heard?" Geralt asked, closing his eyes.

"Let's see… I heard that the monsters you gathered together are well-respected for their contributions to the cause, and that some of the rock trolls even stayed behind to join on as Skellige warriors in an official capacity."

"Your idea," Geralt reminded him. Jaskier pressed smiling lips to his forehead.

"But only you could've pulled it off. Shani was bragging too. Said the medical corps saved nearly 80 bodies that would've died on the battlefield by rushing into the thick of things and dragging them away." Geralt hummed. He hadn't heard about it, but had no doubt it was true. Their death toll was unrealistically low for the scale of the battle. "What else?" Jaskier pestered. "You must have been in the thick of it."

Geralt hummed, pondering. "Avellac'h and Ciri stayed on shore, summoned the Wild Hunt with what he called a Sunstone. The battle itself… messy. Mages kept the Wild Hunt from fleeing through portals, and the Skellige longships kept them from fleeing by sea. Besides that it was a free-for-all. The only rule was kill the guys trying to kill you."

Jaskier rubbed Geralt's shoulders comfortingly. "Surely you can give me better description than that," he teased.

Geralt frowned in mock irritation, then pulled Jaskier down for a kiss. "I went with the other witchers, at first. We were meant to be the vanguard, striking ahead in an attempt to get to Eredin before he killed too many. Numbers are important in an army, but there were few strong enough in single combat to take down the Hunt's generals. So I guess we were lucky in that we managed to run by all of them. Lambert and Eskel took Imlerith, Vesemir and the vampires took Caranthir—after Ciri took a swing at him."

"Ciri did? I thought she was on shore?" Jaskier panicked slightly, even though the battle was long done and Ciri clearly fine.

Geralt snorted. Her stubborn glare when Avellac'h had ordered her to stay put during the battle rose to his mind. "She's stubborn. Won't quit once she's decided she's going to do something," he said.

Jaskier hummed lightly, fiddling with Geralt's hair. "Just like her father," he said, so fondly that Geralt felt a heat rush to his cheeks. He was glad it wouldn't show. "After that?" Jaskier then asked.

"After that… I impressed on her the importance of leaving Eredin to me. She dropped me off via portal, stuck her tongue out, and portaled away."

Jaskier stifled a giggle. "Cheeky girl." Geralt hummed in agreement. "And the Hunt? What was it like to fight them? I assume you did fight Eredin?"

"Hm. The Hunt… They wield ice magic, and portals, or the generals do at least. Makes them hard to pin down. Ice seeps energy and slows your movement, while the portals mean they can pop out behind you unexpectedly, which requires a lot of speed and concentration to dodge. They caught us off guard, too," Geralt added, just remembering it. "We were summoning them, so we thought we had the momentum, but the first thing they did when they got there was freeze the whole bay, so we ended up having to cross the ice instead of just sailing up to their ships." Geralt sighed. "Honestly… it was an uphill fight." Jaskier hugged Geralt's shoulders a little tighter, fingering lightly around the edges of a new scar, courtesy of Eredin. "Got through it though. Knew you were waiting for me." It was as close as Geralt could get to forming the words _I came back for you_.

Jaskier pressed a multitude of kisses to his cheek, as though he could hear it. "And the final blow?"

"Hm…" Geralt thought about it, running through each slash and pirouette, dodge and roll and stab. "I was getting tired. Parried a blow, but it pushed me back. I swung around in a pirouette and stabbed towards his face. Caught him off guard, must have, because I got him through the eye." Jaskier made a reactive grossed-out face, and Geralt huffed a laugh, rubbing his thumb along Jaskier's wrist, still wrapped around his neck. "The wound slowed him, and the next time he raised his sword, I got underneath it for a solid blow to the chest."

Jaskier pulled the hand holding his towards his mouth, kissing Geralt's knuckles lightly. "Well I'm glad you won it. But the battle was only one day, right? You were gone nearly a week!"

Geralt sighed. "That was… Ciri." He growled, remembering the lead up. "Avellac'h tricked us, led Ciri up to this tower, on Undvik. Yen and I went after her, but there was a snowstorm, and a magic barrier around it… Yen barely had enough in her to get me through it. And there was Avellac'h, standing around, making excuses as to how it was necessary…"

"Was it?" Jaskier asked lightly. Geralt growled again.

"Not the point. Apparently Ciri was supposed to enter the tower to stop the 'coming of the white frost,' as written in Ithlinne's Prophecy. She was determined to go… I couldn't stop her." Geralt paused, remembering the worry, the panic, the anguish of seeing that nothing he said could stop her going towards what at the time seemed like certain death. "I… I promised I'd wait for her, until she came back." He quirked a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. Jaskier just held him tighter. "Took a little longer than expected."

It had felt like years. Geralt knelt and meditated in front of that tower the entire time, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. Ciri, when she came out, looked similarly exhausted and starved. And Yen, when they met her outside the barrier, had visible bags under her eyes. Ciri used the last bit of her energy to make fun of her for them before passing out and making Geralt carry her all the way down the mountain.

"Well it certainly makes for a dramatic story, doesn't it, sweetheart?" Jaskier declared. "C'mon now, up, up, or you'll start to get pruny." Jaskier knew full well that Geralt couldn't, in fact, "get pruny," but Geralt heaved himself to his feet anyways, as Jaskier fetched a towel. He stood a step away, admiring Geralt openly, before winking and handing it over.

"How were things here?" Geralt asked as he toweled off.

Jaskier's smile broadened. "Good! You know, I told you it would be fine, and it has been. Not to say there haven't been things we needed you for, but there's been no crises. Or at least, I don't think so. Dudu's nerves are a little more on edge, I think. He's happy to act the part, but I don't think he was made for this kind of leadership. More of a bookie, that one. Anyways." Jaskier shook his head to get back on track. "Nobody's been overtly suspicious, but we postponed a few decisions for your input, so you've got a few things to look over today, if you're up for it." Jaskier had pulled out clothes for Geralt while he was drying off, and now helped him into them.

Jaskier, as it turned out, had actually done fine. He stuck close to Geralt's side during his meetings, and unlike his trial week, participated rather heavily in the discussion. But Geralt's presence and his hand on Jaskier's back seemed to lend weight to his words, and even the rest of the Big Four listened to him. Geralt found it easier to breathe the more he saw Jaskier easily existing in his world. Maybe… Maybe this could work. Maybe Jaskier was more adaptable than Geralt gave him credit for.

Over the next week, all the friends that had gathered to welcome Ciri and Geralt back slowly dispersed. Many had already said goodbye—the monsters that Geralt had gathered, the Skelligers, and Avellac'h had gone their separate ways at the end of the battle, not waiting up. Yennefer and the sorceresses headed to Nilfgaard, to make good on their agreement with the Emperor. Yennefer promised to inform him of Ciri's demise, as per her wishes, and that Geralt was no longer for hire. The other mages split into two groups, some taking their chances that Novigrad's rules on magic would change without the witch hunters, others fleeing to the safety of Kovir, farther north.

Roche also headed to Vizima, to meet with his Nilfgaardian contacts about Temeria's freedom. There were already reports coming in of Redania's army falling apart without a leader, and the end of the war could be seen by many, hovering in the distance.

Shani left to continue her practice in Oxenfurt. She promised to come visit, and assured them her door was always open if they ever came to Oxenfurt. Geralt liked her no-nonsense attitude, and he could see, past their playful jabs, how much she and Jaskier cared about each other.

Yarpen stuck around to catch up with Zoltan and Geralt, who he hadn't seen since before the latest war began, but eventually took his band of dwarves and set off on a new adventure.

The witchers stayed a while longer, catching up and getting to know Jaskier and Geralt's new life better, but eventually gave in to the call of the Path. Geralt hugged them each goodbye, surprising Eskel and making Lambert visibly uncomfortable, and promised that if he could find the time for it, he'd bring Jaskier up to Kaer Morhen for a visit.

Ciri was the last to go. After a lifetime of being chased and fought over, she wanted to see the world on her own terms. As a witcher. Geralt understood. He wished her luck, and safety, and made her promise to come visit and bring him stories. Jaskier swept her up in a hug of his own, crying already. "I've spent a fraction of the time with you that Geralt has, but I love you like a daughter, you know," he sobbed into her shoulder. Ciri's eyes were watery too, and she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. "Be careful out there."

Geralt and Jaskier walked her all the way out, waving goodbye at Hierarch Gate until she disappeared over the horizon. They returned to the Chameleon wordlessly, and it was only when they stepped back inside that Geralt recognized what the hollow ache in his chest was. Jaskier smiled sadly at him, as though he knew. Geralt had never felt loneliness like this, as though the world got darker when someone left. Perhaps being with Jaskier put him more in touch with his emotions.

That night, he held Jaskier tighter than usual. Jaskier held him back, just as tightly. "Are you happy, here?" Jaskier whispered, possibly to himself.

Geralt answered anyways. "Happier than I ever thought I could be." He propped himself on an elbow so he could see Jaskier's face. By his searching eyes, it was clearly dark enough that Jaskier couldn't see him back, and Geralt smiled as Jaskier followed up with his hands, settling when he cupped Geralt's cheek. "I've never let myself feel enough to be lonely. Anger, love, amusement, sure… But everything else was so repressed I don't know that I would have recognized it. I don't miss the Path. I don't think I could bear it anymore, the loneliness of knowing you don't fit in anywhere. Here, with you, I finally belong somewhere. I can do something good and be recognized for it. I may get restless, after a time, but you're my home now. I'll always come home." Jaskier smiled, nuzzling lightly at Geralt's chest.

"They'll come back too," Jaskier said, with certainty that Geralt didn't have. "They're our friends. And we can always go visit, too," he added when Geralt hummed in a way Jaskier must have taken as uncertainty. "Just because we're settled doesn't mean we can't ever leave. Look forward to our next meeting, not back on our goodbyes." Geralt could hear his own smile in his answering hum.

"I love you, Jaskier."

"Love you too, darling. Get some sleep."


End file.
